Jonah Hex: Death and Gunsmoke
by Susan Hillwig
Summary: A DC2 collected story! Before Jonah Hex became the most feared bounty hunter in the Old West, he'd already lived a life full of tragedy and dead bodies. From childhood to the Civil War and beyond, get a glimpse at the man behind the legend.
1. Prologue

_The idea for this came to me while I was still in the midst of writing "The Long Road Home": take all the flashbacks and bits of info from the old Jonah Hex stories and string them together, retelling the man's past in chronological order from childhood to his first bounty kill (though admittedly, there are some gaps and inconsistencies in the official record). So when I landed the WWQ gig at DC2, it seemed like the best place to start, especially with the new Jonah Hex series coming out -- I figured it may be a long time before J&J got around to any sort of origin story, so why not fill folks in? After making some notes and conferring with my fellow Hex-nuts Kevin and Tim about how to best fill the historical gaps (thanks again, guys!), I got down to business and began what would be my DC2 debut. The prologue first posted on Nov. 2, 2005 (to coincide with the new Jonah Hex #1), and subsequent issues came out on a semi-quarterly basis (that's a whole 'nother story)._

_Unfortunately, by April, I got a bit of a surprise: I'd traveled to Pittsburgh to meet Jimmy Palmiotti at a con, and while having a sit-down chat with the guy, he told me that they'd be covering Jonah's origin in their second year. Never before have I bit my tongue so hard. He knew I was writing the fics (his unofficial statement regarding them is "Sure, go nuts!"), but it's a rule of thumb that you don't openly discuss them with DC staffers, so I'm sitting there feeling like a dope for jumping the gun on these guys. I like what they're doing, they've got a great handle on the character, and I had no intention of stepping on their toes like this...but what's done is done, the story was already halfway complete and posted by that point, and considering the overwhelmingly positive response I'd gotten so far, I wasn't about to stop. The final chapter went up on Oct. 18, 2006, just two weeks shy of when Jonah Hex (vol. 2) #13 is supposed to ship, which will begin J&J's three-part origin tale. Beyond a couple of panel shots, I have no clue what's in store, nor how much their story and mine will resemble each other -- we have the same source material, so I expect a few overlaps -- but in a world where both Batman's and Superman's origins have been retold ad nauseam, I think folks can make room for two variations on Jonah's beginnings._

_**Disclaimer:** All characters in this story are owned by DC Comics. Portions of this story are based on events originally published in Secret Origins #21, DC Super-Star Holiday Special (1980), Weird Western Tales #29-30, and Jonah Hex (vol.1) #7-8, 27, 30-31, 35-37, 48, 57, & 65-68. If you have any questions regarding details put forth in this story, feel free to send me a note under the review section at the end of each chapter -- all inquires will be answered, no matter how small._

_**Continuity:** Originally posted on the DC2 fanfiction site as Weird Western Quarterly #0-4. For a link, please click on the homepage listed under my profile. _

**DEATH AND GUNSMOKE: PROLOGUE**

_**1878:**_

There are places along the border between Texas and Mexico where the line grows blurry, and if you were to ask just which side you currently stand, the answer would vary widely from one person to the next. El Gato Negro was one of those places. Consisting only of a two-story saloon and a tiny livery, it served as a way station for people traveling a half-forgotten trail between the two lands. It had been there for as long as those who frequented it could remember, and it would probably still be there after their bones had fallen to dust. So long had it stood, in fact, that no one could remember why it was called such -- no cat had ever been seen there, black or otherwise. Trivial things like that mattered not to its patrons, who would come to the sandblasted building, fill their bellies with booze and greasy Mexican dishes, and perhaps spend a night in one of the rooms for rent before moving on.

As the sun began to set for the day, El Gato Negro held a population of eight: six customers idling in the saloon, and the elderly couple that currently owned the property. The man, Enrique, stood behind the bar, polishing glasses and watching his wife, Rosa, move about the tables. She paused at one of them, inquiring of the three men engaged in a poker game if they wanted another drink. At another table sat a traveling salesman dressed in a well-tailored (but fraying) brown suit and bowler hat, a sample case tucked between his legs as he finished his dinner. A graying cowboy smoked alone near the dusty front window, and at the bar itself stood a large, rough-looking Mexican, his nose permanently out of place from too many late-night brawls. He knocked back his fourth whiskey of the hour and banged the shot glass on the counter, calling out in Spanish, "_Ay, viejo_, another drink…and do not be so stingy this time."

"_Si, senor."_ Enrique refilled the man's glass, brimming it with liquor. When the finished, the man scooped it up and tossed it down with just as much vigor as the first. Once it hit the bar again, he looked at the bartender expectantly, waiting to get another shot. Instead of obliging him, however, Enrique said, "_Senor_, if I may…you have not paid for the others yet. I will gladly give you more, once you…"

"I will pay when I am done," he answered, "and I am not done. So…" He rapped the glass on the counter again.

Behind the Mexican, Rosa's eyes met her husband's as she mouthed "No", shaking her head for emphasis. Enrique's own eyes darted away from her, down to the bar. _"Si, senor," _he repeated, and poured again The Mexican had come in before, and was known for having a short temper -- so long as things stayed quiet, and he got what he wanted, everything would be fine.

The planks on the porch outside the saloon squeaked, and a moment later, a tall figure dressed in Confederate gray stepped into the doorway, blocking out the waning light. His face was all shadows beneath the brim of his hat, and they did not disperse even as the man passed beneath the kerosene lamps hanging from the ceiling. All eyes were upon him as he walked to an empty table near the back of the saloon, the silence broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall and the thud of his boots on the floorboards. Traildust was ground into the fabric of his old uniform, and some of it shook loose as he eased the saddlebag off his shoulder and onto the floor, then took a seat, stretching out his long legs before him. As he did so, the clock began to buzz and whine, the inner workings threatening to break down completely, until the chime finally rang out seven times before falling back into its steady tick-tock rhythm.

Rosa, never one to shirk her duties, approached the man. "_Buenas tardes, senor,_" she said, then continued in English, "Do you wish to have a drink?"

Instead of answering, the man removed his hat, revealing his face to the other patrons. He was middle-aged, just beginning to develop some decent creases around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. One might be inclined to call him handsome, were it not for one obstacle: the right side of his face lay in ruin, his cheek torn through and scarred, and the skin around his eye partly burned away, giving half his face a gritted, staring expression. He ran a hand through his red hair and scratched the back of his head, paying no mind to the looks he received from all around the saloon.

_"Dios mio,"_ Rosa gasped, then quickly recovered her composure. "Forgive me, _senor_, I should not..."

"No need tuh say sorry, ma'am, Ah've seen worse reactions," he told her in a thick Southern accent. "Ah met a French gal in a bar once, not too dif'rent from this place. She got a good look at me an' fainted dead away...twice, if'n Ah recall correctly." Putting his hat back on, he gave her a lopsided smile. "Once we got better acquainted, though, she didn't seem tuh mind it much." He nodded towards the salesman (who almost choked on a mouthful of food when the newcomer did so) and said, "Any chow left, or is the kitchen closed?"

"No, _senor_, there is plenty. We have roast _cabrio,_ and some fried rice."

"Ah'll take a mess o' thet. Toss in a bottle of whiskey, too, if'n yuh please."

She left the table and headed for the door behind he bar that led to the small kitchen, while Enrique brought over the whiskey and a glass. The man thanked him, paying for the meal and drinks, then poured himself a shot, sat back, and began drinking at his leisure.

Over at the poker table, one of the men leaned close to the other players and whispered, "Well now, there's a sight I never thought I'd see. Just hope I live long enough to tell folks 'bout it."

"What, it's just some old johnny-reb," the youngest of the group replied.

The third man shook his dark-haired head and hissed, "Are you blind, kid? That's Jonah Hex a-sittin' over there! Man was killin' folk afore you were born!"

"Jonah..._that's _Jonah Hex?" The young man spoke a tad louder than the others, and his outburst caught the attention of the man in question. He turned his head slightly in the direction of the poker table, the glass of whiskey still raised to his lips, then turned away as if he'd lost interest. In a much quieter tone, the young man said, "Oh Jesus...he looked at me, he looked right at me."

"And you're still alive...congratulations," the first man said without a hint of humor. "I hear-tell he's shot fellas just 'cause they didn't get out of his way fast enough when he's walkin' down the street. Thought for sure that old lady was gonna die a minute ago."

"Naw, he don't kill women," the dark-haired man added. "Reckon if he's here, though, somebody'll die right soon." As he said that, Rosa came out of the kitchen with a tin plate loaded down with rice and goat meat. She set it in front of Hex, who gave her another small smile before picking up his fork and digging in. "Wonder how he manages to eat with a big hole in the side of his face?"

"Very carefully, I'd imagine."

The young man kept watching Hex, doing his best to not be obvious about it. Like many that lived out West, he was aware of the bounty hunter's reputation, but to actually be sitting in the same room with him was something else. "What the Hell happened to his face, anyhow?"

"Indians. They kidnapped him an' his wife, raped her while he watched, then started carvin' him up just for fun. Ain't been right in the head since." The dark-haired man tapped a finger against his temple.

"Pardon my interruptin', but that's a load of bull." The three men turned around and saw that the cowboy had moved his chair closer to their table. He leaned towards them, elbows on knees, a cigarette dangling from his lip. "It was the War what did that to him. First battle he was in, a lucky shot hit his gun, blew the whole thing up in his face. The man died right then an' there...only he don't know it, he just keeps on fightin' like nothin' happened. That's why he's still wearin' that uniform after all these years: he's a goddam ghost."

"A _ghost? Now_ who's talkin' bull," the first man scoffed. "He's a real man...and he was born like that, so I'm told. His daddy done shot his mama soon's he popped out."

The cowboy dropped his smoke on the floor and ground it under the toe of his boot. "That don't explain Red Dog," he said.

"What's that?"

"Little piss-ant town. 'Bout three years ago, the Devil himself jumped Hex in a bar there an' dragged him down to Hell. Told 'im his soul had been wanderin' around long enough. 'Course Hex didn't believe him, so he whupped the Devil's ass an' crawled his way back up here."

"Did you see it?"

"No, but I heard it on good authority from a friend of mine. Said they wrote 'bout it in the local paper, so you know it must..." The cowboy stopped, realizing that Hex was looking their way again. It wasn't a casual glance this time either -- the man's cold blue eyes lingered, taking in the full measure of the gossiping patrons as he ate his _cabrio._

With fumbling hands, the first man scooped up the cards scattered across the table. "Whose deal is it?" he said a bit too loudly. "Is it mine? I think it's mine..." He peeked at Hex out of the corner of his eye, and saw they were still being watched. He remembered his offhand comment earlier, that he hoped he'd live long enough to tell others about the encounter. _Forgot to knock on wood when I said it,_ he thought, and wondered if the bounty hunter would let him off the hook if he just bolted for the door right now.

Before he got a chance to test the theory, the Mexican at the bar began to holler in Spanish, "I did not tell you to stop, _viejo!_ You get me another drink, or I crack open that empty head of yours!"

"Please, _senor,_ all I ask for is a little money...just a few _pesos_..." Enrique cowered against the back bar, his wife beside him. "I will give you more after..."

The Mexican slammed his palm on the counter -- the old couple flinched like a gun had gone off. "You think I am joking? You think I would not kill a man as old and shriveled as you?"

Still seated at his table, Hex said in Spanish, "Do you think killing old men makes you brave? Or is it because anything else is too much of a challenge for you?" When he spoke, the Southern accent disappeared from his voice, the words coming out with the precision of a native. "Perhaps you should start with some small children, work your way up from there."

The men at the poker table gaped at the gunfighter, uncaring now whether he saw them doing it or not, and made ready to dive for cover should bullets start flying.

"Perhaps I should start with you," the Mexican answered, and left the bar to approach Hex's table. He towered over the man, his meaty hand resting on the pistol strapped to his right hip. "I would be doing you a favor, I think, killing someone as ugly as you."

"The day I ask for a favor from a _canalla_ like you," Hex replied without looking up, "is the day I _should_ be killed." He spun his fork idly around between the fingers of his left hand, digging a hole into the pile of rice on his plate. "Today is most certainly not that day."

"You filthy, ugly..." The Mexican began to draw his gun, but before he could even lift it out of the holster, the bounty hunter flipped the fork up and jabbed it into the back of the Mexican's hand, the tines sinking into the soft tissue between his thumb and forefinger. Howling in pain, he tried to pull away, but Hex quickly stood up, giving the fork a twist as he did so. The Mexican went to grab him with his free hand, but Hex caught him by the wrist and, keeping both of the man's hands pinned to his sides, slammed his head into the man's crooked nose. He then spun the Mexican around, still holding on to the fork, and forced him against the bar, the man's jaw bouncing off the counter.

Jerking the Mexican's wounded hand up behind his back, Hex growled into his ear, "Pay the man."

He spat out a gob of blood instead. "Rot in Hell, you _hijo de perra."_

"Pay the man or lose a thumb." The gunfighter twisted the fork again, and the Mexican reconsidered what he'd said -- with his other hand, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins, then tossed them onto the bar. "_Muchas gracias_...now get out of my sight," Hex said, and let go of him, yanking out the fork as he did so. The Mexican turned to face him, cradling his wounded hand against his chest and snuffling blood from his nose. There was a moment where it seemed the man hadn't learned his lesson, but it passed without incident and he left the saloon, glancing back at Hex one last time before walking through the batwing doors.

The old couple stepped out from behind the bar, thanking Hex over and over for what he'd done. The gunfighter didn't seem to notice the words of praise as he bent over to pick up his hat, which had fallen off when he head-butted the Mexican. Over at the poker table, the four men seated around it began to relax, and the dark-haired one even managed to find his tongue again, muttering, "Looks like I was wrong 'bout somebody dyin'...but the night's still young."

Once again, Hex looked in their direction, only this time, he didn't stay quiet about their comments. "Ain't nobody dyin' by muh hand tonight," he told them in English, his accent slipping back into place.

The dark-haired man gagged on his own spit and turned pale. The others scooted their chairs away from him a bit, just in case. "W-w-why won't you...I mean..." the man stuttered.

He smoothed out a dent in his hat and settled it back on his head before saying in a low voice, "Personal reasons." He went back to his table to finish his meal, then seemed to reconsider and tossed his fork onto the plate, the tines still tipped with the Mexican's blood. Turning to the old couple instead, he asked, "Y'all got any rooms available?"

"_Si...si_, we have a very fine room for you, _senor_," Enrique said with a smile, "no charge."

"Ah ain't no hard-luck case. Yuh charge me the same as everybody else, yuh follow?" Judging by the look in Hex's eyes, one wouldn't have known that he'd just saved the old man's life moments before.

The smile fell away from Enrique's lips. He took the gunfighter's money without another word, then led him upstairs to the rooms, Hex carrying his saddlebag in one hand and the whiskey bottle in the other. Not until after they heard a door shut somewhere above them and saw the old man come back down the stairs did anyone at the poker table dare speak. "Reckon I'm thinkin' 'bout sleepin' out in the livery tonight," one of the men said.

"I may join you," said another.

The young man, his eyes still on the stair, said, "Do you think he was joshin'? 'Bout not doin' any killin' tonight, I mean."

"You honestly think a fella like Jonah Hex takes a day off now and again? He's a mad-dog killer...this is just a pause before the chaos sets in."

From his lonely table, the salesman offered, "Maybe he's Catholic." The other men looked at him like he was crazy, but he continued anyways. "Today's the first of November...All Saint's Day. I think Catholics are supposed to spend the whole day in church or something." He shrugged. "Maybe not killing anyone is his way of observing it."

"I don't think a man like him could have religion an' still do what he does," the dark-haired man replied.

The cowboy sparked up another smoke. "Probably tryin' to make things right with God so he don't go to Hell again."

"Either way, once midnight rolls around," the first man said, "I plan on bein' nowheres near him, just in case." As if to challenge his claim, the clock ground out a single chime to mark half-past the hour.

Behind the closed door to his room, Jonah Hex could hear the chime through the thin walls, and nodded absently when he did -- the day was almost over, and he'd managed to keep his hands mostly clean. The Mexican had walked away from the scuffle, so he didn't feel that he'd broken his promise to himself one bit. It was a hard one to keep, but Jonah did his best for just that one day: so long as no one drew his blood, he would refrain from killing any man. One day of peace in a year that was always steeped in blood and pain. One day to remember that it's possible to live without a gun in your hand every moment. One day that was his alone, and couldn't be bought at any price.

He unbuckled his gunbelt and looped it over one of the bedposts, then tossed his battered Confederate coat and hat on a nail sticking out of the wall. Next to it hung a dingy mirror, with a wash basin sitting on the small table below it. He'd set his whiskey bottle there, and picked it up to take a drink before filling the basin with water from a pitcher. Jonah loathed bathing, and avoided getting dunked in a tub for as long as he could stand his own stink, but he wasn't above washing the grime off his face once every week or two. When he slipped his hands into the water, a thin ribbon of pink sank to the bottom -- blood on his hand from the stab wound he'd given the Mexican. Jonah splashed the water over his face, and felt a sting on his forehead. He looked into the mirror to see a cut there, surrounded by a darkening bruise where his head had connected with the man's nose. _It'll heal up fine_, he thought as he ran a finger over it, a drop of his own blood mingling with the Mexican's in the water. It might leave a scar, but it would be lost among all the others, especially the one that had become his trademark over the years. Most folk never saw past the twisted, burned flesh on his face -- to them, he was just a monster that dispatched other monsters, nothing more. Some had asked him over the years how it happened, and why he chose to lead such a lonely, violent life, but they all wanted pat answers when he had none to give. He had trod the Earth for forty years now -- a man can do a lot of living in that time, and he was no exception -- there was no way to sum all that up in one sentence.

Water beading on his cheeks and running through the stubble, he gazed upon his face in the mirror, taking stock of the crow's feet forming near his eyes and the threads of gray beginning to take root in his hair and whiskers. He then gave another absent nod, satisfied for another year with what he saw there.

"Happy birthday, Jonah boy," he said to himself.


	2. Part 1: Once Upon A Time In Texas

**PART 1: ONCE UPON A TIME IN TEXAS**

_**1838:**_

On a deserted road laying under autumn skies, a rickety wagon traveled, bumping around the sole passenger in the driver's seat. He wasn't a handsome man by any means, with his broad, bearded face beneath a slouch hat, but that mattered little to him, as he prided himself more on his brains than his looks. Woodson Hex believed himself to be the craftiest man in these parts, and whenever an opportunity arose to put that craftiness to use, he jumped on it like a cat on a field mouse. He was returning home from one of those opportunities, as a matter of fact: he'd made a deal with some of the local saloons to buy their empty liquor bottles at a dime apiece, then turned around, filled them with homemade moonshine, and sold them to unsuspecting Indians at a dollar-and-a-half, never telling them that the still-labeled bottles no longer contained the contents listed. He made sure to occasionally slip in the real thing so they wouldn't catch on, and so far they hadn't. _Sometimes Ah'm so clever, Ah cain't stand muhself,_ he thought with a smile, listening to some of the leftover bottles clink against each other in the back of the wagon. His craftiness did have a price, or at least he believed that was the reason most of the folks he knew looked down their noses at him -- they were jealous, plain and simple. They couldn't stand the thought of him succeeding, so they gave him dirty looks when he rode into the nearby town of Haverville, overcharging him in the shops to steal away his hard-earned money. Someday he'd show them all, just buy the whole damn town out from under 'em and turn 'em out into the street.

For now, he'd have to content himself with his little plot of land a few miles outside of Haverville, surrounded by fields of buffalo grass and bordering a strip of woodland. Like its owner, the homeplace was lacking in looks, but for Woodson, it was what lay inside that counted. As the shack came into view, he thought of his beautiful wife Ginny, and how much he looked forward to laying with her in the dark, drawing her close and running his hands over her soft skin. Sadly, he couldn't do much with her beyond that, not until the baby was born, but even with that swollen belly between them he could have a little fun. Those thoughts soon flew out of his head, however, when he saw a man leading a horse out of the small stable on his property. A dark look quickly clouded over his features, for as sure as he held tightly onto his money, he held onto his wife even tighter. Snapping the reins, he urged the horses on home a bit faster, his mind trying to decide if he should just shoot the man from afar or throttle the life out of him with his bare hands. He began to calm as he drew closer, seeing the man was only Doc Albano -- he must have been stopping by to look in on Ginny. Woodson brought the wagon to a halt in front of the stable, calling out, "How do, Doc. Everything check out fine?"

"More than fine," he replied, and offered his hand after Woodson climbed down from the wagon. "Congratulations."

Shaking the doctor's hand, he said, "Thanks...whut fer?"

"For becoming a father. You got yourself a new baby boy in there."

"_Now?_ But it just turned November...yuh said the baby might not get here 'til Christmas."

"Looks like the baby had other ideas," the doctor said with a grin. "Your wife went into labor yesterday. Lucky for her, I came on by not long after...spent the whole night with her, tryin' to convince the tyke to hurry it on up. Finally talked him into it this morning."

"Well now, don't thet beat all...Ah leave home fer a few days an' look whut happens." Eager to see the new addition to the household, he began to head for the shack, but the doctor laid a hand on his arm to stop him.

"If you could hold up a minute...your wife seemed a mite worried 'bout how you might react. Y'see, the baby..."

"Whut's wrong? He a cripple? Sick?"

"No, he's a healthy tyke: good weight, ten fingers and toes, the whole mess. It's just..."

"It's just nothin'," Woodson replied, and shook the doctor off. "If'n he ain't sick, an' he ain't crippled, then it's nothin'." He started for the shack again, calling out as he opened the door, "Ginny? Where yuh at, sugar?" It was unnecessary, as Ginny was sitting in the front room by the hearth in her rocker, her long blonde hair tousled and a blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. She looked exhausted, but she managed to give her husband a small smile when she saw him.

"Hello, dear," she said, "I heard you talkin' with the doc...did he tell you?"

"He told me the baby's come, but after thet, he got as flighty as yer sister." He reached out to take the bundle from her, but she pulled it close to her chest.

"Not yet. I want you to promise that...that you won't get angry. I know how you've gotten in the past about things, and I don't..."

"Why would Ah get angry?" Her eyes were insistent, though, and Woodson sighed, "Alright, Ah promise not tuh get angry...now kin Ah see muh son?"

Ginny hesitated, then handed the bundle to her husband. He folded back the blanket, and there it was: a perfect little baby, rosy-cheeked, eyes half-closed, and a lock of red hair curled on his smooth forehead. Absolutely flawless.

"Whut the Hell is this?" Woodson growled at his wife. Unconcerned with the change in tone, the baby reached up and tangled his tiny fingers in the coal-black hairs of the man's beard.

Ginny cowered in her rocker, saying in a small voice, "You promised you wouldn't get angry..."

"Yuh ain't _seen_ angry yet, yuh two-timin' _whore!_" He grabbed Ginny by the wrist and pulled her out of the rocker. Still weak from childbirth, she fell to the ground at his feet as he yelled, "Who's the red-headed bastard y'all been sleepin' with behind muh back?"

Doc Albano, hearing the commotion, came in and tried to intervene. "Mr. Hex, please stop this!"

"Stay outta this, Doc!" He still held the baby in his other hand, his grip tightening enough to make the infant cry out. "Yuh did yer part, an' now Ah've gotta do mine." He gave her a shake, saying, "Ah go off fer days at a time, earnin' enough money tuh keep a roof over yer ungrateful head and food in yer belly, an' the moment Ah'm out of sight, yuh spread yer legs fer whoever comes a-knockin', don't yuh? _Don't yuh?"_

"Woodson, please," Ginny begged, "I love you, I've _only_ loved _you_..."

He let go of her wrist and slapped her across the face. "Yo're a liar _and_ a whore! How yuh explain the red hair? It sure as Hell ain't from _me!"_

"Mr. Hex, if you could just listen for a minute," the doctor said. Woodson glared at him hard enough to make the man back up a couple steps. "T-traits can sometimes skip a generation or two," he continued with a stutter. "Your wife told me she had a grandfather with red hair, so it's perfectly reasonable that the baby could as well."

Woodson turned back to Ginny, still kneeling on the floor with tears flowing down her cheeks. "Is thet the truth, woman? It better be, 'cause if'n Ah find out otherwise..."

"He's yours," she sobbed, "I swear by all the saints in Heaven, he's yours."

The baby cried again, strong and clear. Woodson regarded the bundle in his hand for a moment, then handed the infant over to his wife, muttering, "Ah've gotta go unhitch the horses." He walked back outside, passing the doctor without a word. The doctor himself shuddered after the man left -- he'd only been practicing in Haverville for about a year, but in that time, he'd heard quite a bit about Woodson Hex's temper. He'd also heard a thing or two about the man's wife, but that was no concern of his. Right now, the only thing on his mind was getting out of there before the next flare-up, but his oath as a doctor prevented any sort of hasty retreat.

After helping Ginny back into her rocker, he gave the infant a once-over, to be sure that no harm had come to him. There was some bruising near the baby's shoulder, but nothing broken. The mother had bruises of her own on her wrist and jawline, but seemed to pay them no mind -- her full focus was on the baby in her arms, tucking the blanket securely around his body once again. "Isn't he beautiful?" she said to the doctor.

"He's a peach," he answered, wondering how she could sound so calm after what happened just minutes ago. "Have you thought of a name yet?"

She shook her head. "I was hopin' for a little girl."

"How 'bout callin' him after your grandfather...the redheaded one, I mean."

"I could...but Woodson'll probably want to name the baby after himself."

"Reckon that's why God invented middle names."

Ginny brushed a finger across the baby's downy-soft hair, thinking it over. "Jonah...Jonah Woodson Hex. That sounds fine, don't you think?"

"More than fine." The doctor stepped over to the door, saying, "I'll stop back in a day or two, just to be sure all's well." She nodded in response, never taking her eyes from the infant. He said goodbye to Woodson outside the stable as he climbed onto his horse, but the gruff man ignored him completely. Riding away from the Hex homestead, Doc Albano could only pray that what he'd seen that day would not be a common occurrence, and that the Lord Above would watch closely over little Jonah.

* * *

_**1843:**_

When he was four-and-a-half, Jonah left the confines of Haverville for the first time. It was also the first time he saw a dead body. His mother told him the man sleeping in the long box was his Uncle Silas, and that he was in Heaven now with Jesus and the angels, which didn't make much sense to Jonah -- how could he be in Heaven and in the box at the same time? He kept asking his mother to explain, but she shushed him and made him sit still beside her on the hard wooden pew while a preacher stood in front of the box and talked really loud for what seemed like forever. Even his father, who sat on the other side of Jonah, began to fidget after a while. The worst part of it all was listening to his Aunt Aretha bawl the whole time -- the heavyset woman leaned hard on her younger sister Ginny, a handkerchief covering her face as her sobs echoed off the church rafters. Jonah's father, sensitive as ever, muttered under his breath at one point that if she didn't stop it soon, her dead husband might jump out of the casket and slap her fat face just so he could rot in peace.

After the preacher stopped talking and they put Uncle Silas in a really deep hole, everyone went over to Aunt Aretha's house and ate cold chicken and pie and talked a lot (not as loud as the preacher, but some of the words were the same). Woodson, tired of listening to his sister-in-law carry on, found a bottle of whiskey and wandered off with some other men. Jonah wanted to get away from there too, away from all the strange people that kept coming up to him and patting him on the head and telling him what a handsome boy he was, they could see a lot of his mother in him. He especially wanted to get away from Aunt Aretha and all the noise she was making, it was giving him the shivers.

Ginny insisted that they stay with Aretha for a few days, just until she calmed down a bit -- Woodson raised holy Hell about that, and tried to persuade her otherwise with the back of his hand, but she could be stubborn sometimes. Eventually, Woodson decided to leave himself, making his wife swear that she'd return home in a week -- he was wary of letting her out of his sight for so long, but it seemed a better choice than facing Aretha's endless dirge. While Ginny did her best to help her sister recover, Jonah was left in the care of his older cousins. Aretha's brood consisted of three boys: Tommy was the eldest at eight years old, and the twins David and Daniel had just turned six. Seeing as how they lived a good two days from Haverville, they'd never even met their cousin Jonah until the funeral, and they certainly didn't know why all the grownups thought they'd be friends with him right off simply because he was kin. Tommy felt the most put-off by Jonah's presence -- it wasn't enough that he had to be the man around the house now, he also had to contend with keeping an eye on a brat he barely knew from Adam, not to mention his own brothers. They tried to ditch Jonah at every opportunity, but soon found he was hard to shake -- it didn't matter how far they went from the homestead, as soon as they turned around Jonah would be there, looking at the boys with his big blue eyes.

Three days after the funeral, the boys had gone down to the pond not far from their home for a swim -- while it wasn't fully summer yet, the dry Texas climate made it feel close enough. They'd stripped down to their knickers and were readying to launch a small wooden raft they kept down there when they heard a rustling in the nearby weeds. The next thing they knew, Jonah popped up, barefoot and smiling, and the boys groaned.

"He never quits," David said, and Daniel yelled, "Go on home, yuh baby!"

"Ah'm not a baby," Jonah said, trying to stand a little taller to emphasize.

"Aw, forget about him," Tommy told his brothers, and dragged the raft into the water. The twins joined him, and when Jonah tried to get in on the action, one of them pushed Jonah down on his fanny. He sat in the shallow water and let out a whine as the boys laughed at him.

"See? Nothin' but a big _baby!" _Daniel said. They paddled the raft out to the center of the pond, then used it to dive off of as Jonah watched from the shore, arms wrapped around his knees. After a while, they got bored with swimming, and sat on the edge of the raft, wondering how they could get back and avoid dragging their little cousin along. "Don't matter how fast we run," David said, "he always finds us."

A wicked grin crossed Tommy's face. "Ah got an idea," he said, then shouted to the shore, "Hey, Jonah!" The boy immediately jumped to his feet at the sound of his name. "Me an' the boys decided if'n yuh can swim on out here, then yo're big enough to play with us," Tommy continued, waving to him. "C'mon, yuh can do it!"

"What're yuh _doin'?" _his younger brothers said as Jonah struggled to get his shirt off, but Tommy just smiled and slipped back into the pond, one hand on the raft. They watched Jonah as he did his best to swim out to them -- he didn't have much experience in the water, and landed up gulping down a mouthful every few strokes. He kept coming, though, kicking his legs and flailing his arms and making painfully slow progress.

When he was more than halfway there, Tommy began to kick his legs as well, pushing the raft just a few more feet away. "That's it, yo're almost there!" he told Jonah, laughing. His brothers quickly caught on, and paddled with their hands every time Tommy kicked the raft a little further out of reach. Soon, the raft was nearly at the opposite shore, and Jonah was struggling to keep his head above water at the pond's deepest point. The older boys kept egging him on, laughing every time his head bobbed below the surface. When the raft bumped up against the other shore, the boys jumped off and ran up the slope, leaving Jonah to tread water in the middle of the pond.

"Hey..._hey! Wait!_" He tried to wave his arms, but he was too exhausted to raise them above his head. "Don't leave...don't..." In a panic, he stopped kicking, and he began to sink immediately -- his mouth filled with water as he tried to yell again, then he managed to break the surface, coughing and crying. Jonah could see his cousins standing on the top of the slope, looking down at him, then nothing but water as he went under, his heart banging inside his small ribcage and his lungs on fire. He could see his hand float above him as he sank, no feeling in it, no control, just a shadow against the fading light over his head.

Then something blocked the light, and Jonah felt a tug, and suddenly there was air again, but he still couldn't catch his breath. He felt firm earth and dry grass beneath him, and someone was slapping him on the back and face and hollering, "Breathe, stupid! _Breathe!" _His stomach spasmed, and he vomited up pond water and breakfast all over his cousin Tommy. That earned him another slap on the face. "Yuh dummy! What's wrong with yuh?"

Jonah looked up at his cousins -- Tommy glared down at him, while David and Daniel stood behind their older brother, scared out of their wits. "Oh my God, we almost killed 'im," one of the twins (Jonah couldn't tell which) said.

"Shut up," Tommy snapped, then leaned close to Jonah. "Yo're lucky Ah came back for yuh...only reason Ah did is 'cause Ma's upset enough already. But if'n yuh keep followin' us like yuh been, Ah might change my mind an' drag yuh back here. Understand, dummy?"

Jonah nodded, his throat hurting too much to talk. The thought of going back in the water, sinking down and down until he hit the inky bottom...he started crying, not caring if his cousin hit him again or if they called him a baby. He was still crying when the boys took him back to the house -- his mother gathered him up in her arms and tried to console him, but Jonah refused to tell her what was the matter, nor did she know why he stuck so close to her for the rest of their stay, not even wanting to go outside when his cousins did.

Ginny and her son went back to Haverville a couple days later, and Jonah began to act like his old self not long after. However, the first time she gave him a bath after their return, and tried to get him to dip his head under the water, Jonah started screaming and scrambled right out of the metal washtub, refusing to even let his mother rinse off the soap.

* * *

_**1847:**_

"Get back over here, boy! Yuh want me tuh blow yer fool head off by mistake?" Woodson grabbed his son by the shoulder as the boy walked out of the underbrush and gave him a good shake. "We's out here tuh do some huntin', not tomfoolery!"

"Ah'm sorry, Pa," Jonah said, "Ah thought Ah saw..."

"Yuh _never_ think, an' thet's yer whole damn problem." He tucked the shotgun under his arm and reached into his coat to pull out a flask. The late-November air had quite a chill that day, and he needed a little nip to warm himself up. "The Good Lord didn't give yuh the same sense he done gave a mule, Ah swear."

"Sorry, Pa," Jonah repeated, not really meaning it -- he'd found at an early age that it was better to simply apologize to his father right away than to wait and see if he'd get hit. He seemed to apologize a lot.

Woodson downed a mouthful of whiskey, then tucked the flask away. "If'n yuh want something tuh eat fer Thanksgiving, yo're gonna have tuh listen tuh me," he told the boy, "not run around in the bushes an' scare off all the game." He brought the shotgun up again and continued his path through the woods near the homeplace, Jonah following close behind. Winter was approaching fast, making it hard to find any wildlife worth emptying a barrelful of buckshot at, but they were trying their luck anyways -- the holiday just wouldn't be the same without some sort of fresh meat on the table. "There we go, son," his father said quietly after a while, and pointed to a round brownish shape huddled in a blanket of dead leaves. " Reckon thet rabbit there'll make us a damn fine supper."

"He's a beaut, Pa."

The elder Hex shushed him, then knelt down on one knee and took aim. Jonah watched his father, paying close attention to how he handled the gun. The man had let him do a little target shooting before, and found Jonah had a good steady hand for it, but he wasn't about to depend on his nine-year-old son to bring home supper just yet. So the boy could only stand by as Woodson waited for the right moment, finger on the trigger and eye on the rabbit, until...

_BAM!_ The gunshot rang out in the forest, the rabbit bolted, and Woodson cursed. "Sonova...go get 'im, boy!" He slapped Jonah on the back, saying, "Ah know Ah hit thet sucker dead-on, so he couldn't have gotten far."

"Yessir, Ah'll find it!" He ran in the direction the rabbit went, easily spotting the flecks of blood it left behind on the ground. Unfortunately, that was all he could find. _Keep lookin',_ Jonah thought, _Pa's gonna be real cross if'n yuh don't bring it back._ He went back a few steps, kicked at a large pile of leaves, but still nothing. Then he heard a noise behind a fallen tree -- it lay in the opposite direction of the blood trail, but he had to try. As quietly as he could, Jonah circled 'round the deadfall until he found the source of the noise: a small raccoon, its back leg badly twisted in a trap. It stared up at him, its fuzzy chest moving rapidly up and down, obviously terrified.

"Don't be scared, boy," Jonah said, and knelt down beside the animal, "Ah ain't gonna hurt yuh, Ah promise." He inspected the wound, careful not to touch it. "Ain't so bad...just need tuh get yuh outta this here trap, is all." He took hold of the metal jaws and tried to pry them apart, but all he succeeded in doing was making the raccoon shriek. It nipped at Jonah, and the boy pulled back. "It's okay, it's okay," he said. "Ah'm just tryin' tuh help, the trap's..."

"Whut in the blue Hell are yuh doin'?" Jonah's head snapped up, and he saw his father towering over him with anger in his eyes. "Ah sent yuh out here tuh get a rabbit, not play around!"

"Ah ain't playin'," he started to say, but Woodson's hand whipped out and slapped him hard across the face.

"No backtalk." He peered around the boy at the raccoon. "Whut yuh got there?"

"He's hurt, Pa. Ah'm tryin' tuh set him free, but the spring's too tight."

"Ain't right tuh go messin' with other folk's traps," he said, knowing full well that he'd done it himself when the opportunity had come along. "Let it alone an' go find thet rabbit afore Ah..."

"But he's just a baby!" Jonah said, forgetting the earlier admonishment about backtalk. "We cain't leave him here, he'll die! If'n yuh let him out, Ah'll...Ah won't ask fer no Christmas presents. Just let me take him home an' fix him up, Ah'll keep him out in the woodshed an' take care of him 'til springtime. Please, Pa..."

Woodson stood there silently for a minute, regarding his son and the animal, then got down on his knees. "Put yer scarf over him an' hold him down, he's gonna fight like the Devil," he said. Jonah did as he was told, and his father pried the trap apart -- the raccoon let out an awful shriek, but it was soon over. Jonah wrapped his scarf around the poor trembling thing and held it to his chest, petting it and talking softly. "Thet leg's broke bad...Ah don't think it'll heal up proper," Woodson told him.

"Ah'll make him a splint. He'll be okay, yuh'll see." He smiled at his father. "Kin Ah take him home, Pa? Get him cleaned up?"

"Fine...yo're just in muh damn way out here, anyhow." Jonah had jumped up and started running before his father even finished talking. There were no words to express how excited the boy felt: he had a pet now, all his own, Pa said it was okay and everything. Most days, his father scared him half to death, but sometimes the man would surprise him, and those times made all the blows and mean words tolerable, even if only for a short while. The homeplace wasn't too far away, and Jonah made it there in record time, throwing open the front door and yelling, "Ma! Ma, come see whut Pa let me have!"

Ginny had been fixing up an apple pie for after the Thanksgiving feast, and was startled by his sudden entrance. "Goodness, Jonah, you'd think the stable was on fire the way you burst in. Did you and Pa find something for supper?"

"No ma'am...look!" He held up the bundled raccoon, its little gray head poking out. His mother's eyes widened at the sight of it -- it was a little smaller than a housecat, but it was still a wild animal. "His leg's hurt, but Ah'm gonna fix him up right as rain," he explained.

"I'm sure you will, sweetheart," she said, "but you'll do it outside. No critters in the house, injured or no."

"But Ah need something fer bandages...an' food, Ah reckon he's real hungry." He looked up at his mother expectantly, and she soon gave in, relinquishing an old rag and a slice of apple to Jonah before shooing him out of the house. He headed for the woodshed, and after making the raccoon a bed out of straw from the stable, he set to work fixing up his new charge. The animal put up little fuss once it had food to distract it, and let Jonah clean out the wound and wrap a splint around its leg. "Yo're gonna be all right now," Jonah told the raccoon, pulling it in his lap. "Ah'm gonna take care of yuh, an' maybe when spring comes, Pa will see whut a good job Ah've done, an' he'll let me keep yuh 'stead of turnin' yuh loose. Won't thet be fine?" He smiled and stroked the animal's fur. "An' if'n yuh behave real good, maybe Ma will let me keep yuh in the house. Yuh kin sleep right next tuh me, an' Ah'll teach yuh tricks...Ah bet yo're real smart. Yuh look smart." He held the raccoon up to his face, saying, "Yo're gonna need a name, though, so's folks'll know yo're a pet an' not just any old 'coon. How 'bout Ah call yuh Roy? Yuh like thet name?"

The newly-christened Roy merely stared at Jonah with eyes like black marbles.

"Yeah, thet's a fine name. We's gonna be best friends, Roy, we'll..."

"Jonah! Are you still playin' with that raccoon out there?"

He poked his head out of the woodshed and saw his mother standing by the front door of the shack. "Yes'm, we're right here!"

"Well, you come on in, I need help peelin' potatoes for supper."

"Yes'm." He set the animal down on its bed, tucking his scarf around it like a blanket. "Yuh get some rest now, Roy. Ah'll bring yuh some more food after supper, maybe some o' thet pie." He patted the raccoon's head, and before he closed the shed door, he pointed a finger at Roy and said in a firm voice, "Stay!" Figured he should start teaching his pet things right away.

While Jonah was still working on the potatoes, Pa came home from hunting. "Ain't much, but it'll make a nice supper fer the three of us," he said, handing Ginny a burlap sack. "Got it all cleaned an' ready fer yuh, so y'all go on an' set it tuh cookin'. Ah'm so hungry, Ah could eat it raw!" He then went over to the pantry and brought out a fresh bottle of whiskey as his wife and son finished preparing the food.

A few hours later, the feast was all laid out on the sawbuck table, the game Woodson brought home roasted to perfection and smothered in gravy. Once grace was out of the way, Jonah proceeded to tear through the meal on his plate, making sure to set aside a few bites of corn pone and vegetables for Roy. His mother scolded him for wolfing down his food, saying he was liable to choke if he didn't slow down. "Sorry, Ma, but Ah want tuh get back out tuh the shed an' check on Roy," he told her.

"I'm sure he won't mind if'n you leave him be awhile longer," Ma said.

"Don't see why yo're makin' such a big fuss over the thing, anyhow," Pa muttered as he poured himself another glass of whiskey -- he'd already put away two or three before supper, not to mention the flask he'd polished off in the woods. "It was just a flea-bitten runt whut was probably gonna die afore the week was out, his leg was chewed up so bad."

Jonah's face paled at the thought of losing his new friend. "Don't say things like thet, Pa! Roy's gonna be okay, Ah cleaned 'im up real good."

"Ah saw thet, but it don't matter now," he said, then took a drink. "Whut's done is done."

"Woodson..." Ginny started, then looked at the platter of meat she'd fixed up, and a hand flew to her mouth. "For God's sake, Woodson, tell me you didn't..."

"So the Hell whut if'n Ah did! Ah'm the man of the house, ain't Ah? A man's gotta do whut's right fer his family, 'specially when it comes tuh providin' meat fer the table!"

The meaning of his parents' words slowly sank into Jonah, and he pushed his plate away, suddenly ill. "Yuh killed him..." he said quietly, then balled up his fists and banged them on the table, yelling at his father, "Yuh killed him! Yuh done killed Roy!"

"Dammit, boy, whut's wrong with yuh? It was just a damn raccoon, thet's all!"

"No, he wasn't! He was mine, yuh ain't got no right!" He stood up and grabbed his tin plate, throwing it at the man. "Yuh said Ah could have him, an' then yuh done _killed_ him! Ah..._Ah hate yuh!"_

Woodson reached across the table and grabbed his son by the wrist, twisting the boy's arm at an uncomfortable angle. "Watch yer tongue, boy," he growled. "Hate's an awful strong word tuh use against yer own Pa."

"Stop it, you're hurting him!" Ginny pleaded, and tried to make him let go, but he only shoved her away.

"This is all yer damn fault! Yo're always coddling him, an' now look at him: not one damn ounce of respect fer his own flesh an' blood." He got up and yanked Jonah away from the table, throwing him to the floor not far from where the boy's plate landed. "Rather Ah let y'all starve than harm one mangy hair on a 'coon's head...whut the Hell sort of thinkin' is thet?"

_Say sorry_, Jonah thought to himself, _say it quick an' like yuh mean it._ But he couldn't do it, not this time. His Pa had done awful things before, to both him and Ma, but this was the worst of all, he'd killed someone Jonah cared about with nary a thought -- Jonah could never forgive that or soften the coming blows with false apology. Instead, he grabbed the plate again, but his father's boot came down on his hand, pinning it to the floor. The boy bit his tongue, refusing to cry out, even when the man clouted him on the side of the head. His mother tried to stop Woodson before it got any worse, but it was no use, he merely knocked her aside and continued to discipline the boy.

Once the man was done knocking some sense back into him, he ordered Jonah to pick up all the food on the floor and put it back on his plate. The boy did as he was told, his face bruised and bloodied. Woodson then grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back to his place at the table, laying the plate before him and piling on more of the roasted raccoon meat. "Finish yer supper, boy," the elder Hex said. When Jonah only sat there, he dug his fingers into the boy's neck, telling him, "Yuh'd best get started, afore Ah decide tuh shove every last piece down yer damn gullet with muh fist."

Slowly, Jonah ate what was on his plate, every last scrap, the image of Roy's small whiskered face hanging before his mind's eye the whole time. There were a few times when he wasn't sure he could swallow the meat, for fear that it might come back up his throat, but he somehow managed to keep it all down. What sickened him most of all was that, despite knowing just what he was eating, he still enjoyed the taste.

* * *

_**1848:**_

His parents were fighting again. Never seemed to stop, really. He'd grown accustomed to sleeping through most of it, but tonight they were having quite a row, and even holding the pillow over his head couldn't dampen the noise. He could clearly hear whenever Pa slapped Ma, or when a piece of furniture got knocked over, intermingled with his father's booming voice and his mother's weakening cries.

"Filthy whore!" _Whack! _"Every time Ah turn muh back..."

"We were just talking, I swear, that's all..."

_Whack!_ "Don't yuh lie tuh me, woman, Ah _know_ when yo're lyin'!" Another blow, followed by a crash, then wracking sobs.

Jonah wanted to make them stop, but when he'd tried to intervene in the past, he only ended up aggravating his father more. The best thing to do was to stay quiet until it was all over...but it was so hard, especially when he heard his mother crying. She didn't deserve it, not one bit -- she was so pretty and kind, yet Pa treated her like dirt.

Eventually, Jonah heard the front door slam, and after waiting a while to make sure his father was truly gone, he ventured out of his bedroom. He found his mother in the front room, sobbing at the kitchen table. Objects were strewn across the floor, some broken, and Jonah carefully stepped over them until he stood next to her. "Ma? Are yuh alright?"

She looked at him, eyes red and her right cheek beginning to swell, and did her best to give him a smile. "I'm fine, sweetheart, everything...every..." She couldn't finish the lie, and started to cry again. Jonah wrapped his arms around her, and she returned the gesture in kind, pulling him into her lap and rocking him in her arms like she'd done when he was a toddler. It seemed to help, but he wished he could do more.

"Where's Pa gone?" Jonah asked after a while.

"He has some deliveries to make," she said, referring to the homemade moonshine Woodson sold -- of all his schemes, it was still the one that brought the most money into the Hex household. "He should be home by tomorrow night." She looked down at him and said, "You should get back to bed, sweetheart. It's late, and you've got school tomorrow."

"Don't wanna." He held onto his mother a little tighter.

"Come on now, it's all right." She eased him off her lap and led him down the hall to his room. After tucking him under the covers, she brushed his hair aside and kissed him on the forehead. When she pulled back, she found her son looking up at her with worry in his eyes.

"Ma?"

"Yes, Jonah?"

"Why...why does Pa hate us so much?"

Ginny turned her head away from him, just enough so she wouldn't have to look directly at her son. "He doesn't hate us, sweetheart, he just...he has a hard time showing his feelings, that's all. He's a good man, he...takes care of us." She turned back to him, lips pressed in a thin line. "You'll understand when you're older," she said, then moved to the doorway. "Sleep tight, dear."

"G'night." Jonah lay there in the dark, staring at the door long after his mother closed it, and wondered if perhaps Ma wasn't old enough to understand yet, either.

* * *

Jonah saw little point in going to school: he had reading and writing down pat (although the teacher tended to whack his knuckles with a ruler whenever she caught him writing with his left hand), and he could juggle numbers fairly well, so why did he have to keep sitting through it day after day? His mother insisted on him getting a proper education, though, so Jonah tried not to put up too much of a fuss.

The schoolhouse was a good two miles away, and Jonah started walking there not long after dawn, his books held together with an old belt and banging against his leg. About a half-hour into his long trek, he spotted a drummer's wagon heading his way from the direction of town. A man in a natty suit drove the wagon along, and when he neared Jonah, he reined the horses in and stopped before the boy. "Hello to you, young man!" he called down from his perch, tipping his bowler as he did so. "And where are you off to on this fine morning?"

"School," he said, holding up his books for emphasis.

"Ah, very good! A man can get very far in this world with a wise head on his shoulders. I, myself, am an excellent example of that." He waved his hat to a sign on the side of the wagon:

_**PRESTON W. DAZZLEBY**_

_**Fine Dry Goods & Sundries**_

"I have built up this business with only my wits and my own two hands, and none of that would have been possible without receiving proper instruction as a lad. Keep that in mind, my young friend, as you sit in class today." He popped the bowler back on his head and said, "Now, if I may inquire to you on the status of potential customers back from whence you came?"

"Come again?"

The man known as Dazzleby sighed. "Are there a lot of folks living up this road?"

"Just me an' Ma an' Pa. We ain't got much money, though, so Ah don't think..."

"Nonsense! I pride myself on bringing to the wide West an array of reasonably-priced goods that even the most destitute of families can afford. Thank you very much for your time, young man. I shall now let you go on your merry way, whilst I proceed to your humble abode and endeavor to improve upon your family's lifestyle in whatever way I can." He tipped his hat again, then snapped the reins to get the horses moving. Jonah shook his head as he watched the wagon bounce on down the road, thinking it was a good thing Pa wasn't home -- the man had no patience for smooth-talking salesmen.

When he arrived at the schoolhouse, the teacher hadn't rung the bell yet, so many of the children were still out in the yard. Jonah automatically tilted his head down as he approached, hoping that he could get through the day with a minimal of fuss. When he saw four of the boys jostling each other as he neared the school, however, he knew that wouldn't be so.

"Hey, Hex!" one of them called out. "Is yer mama free tonight?"

"His mama ain't free _any _night," another said, "you gotta pay right up front!"

Jonah could feel his face turning red. _Just keep on walkin', _he told himself_, don't start no trouble._ He tried to get past them, but the boys blocked his path.

One of the boys held up some money, saying, "Ah've got two bits, how far will thet get me?"

"Are you kiddin'? She ain't thet cheap...take you four bits just tuh get in the door!" The boys roared at their companion's jab, and Jonah did his level best to wish himself invisible. Every day, he had to endure their taunts about him and his family, just as he had to endure his father's cruelty every night. There was never any respite for him.

"Ah just want tuh go inside," he told them quietly, "please..."

"Whut fer? Ain't nothin' in there fer the son of a tramp!" One of them shoved Jonah and made him stumble backward, but he didn't raise his fists. He wanted to fight back so bad, wanted to knock them all flat, but it never did any good, they would just gang up on him and beat him senseless. Either way, the bullies won.

In as firm a voice as he could muster, Jonah said, "Muh Ma ain't no tramp."

That just made them laugh louder. "The Hell she ain't! Everybody knows it, why don't yuh just..." The boy's words were cut off by the peal of the schoolbell, and Jonah sighed with relief as he went inside. So long as class was in session, he didn't have to worry about being teased too much -- Miss Rooke kept a close eye on all her students, and wouldn't stand for any horseplay.

As always, the school day seemed to drag on forever, with one boring lesson after another. They were in the middle of English when the boy behind him reached out and pulled the hair at the nape of his neck. "Stop it!" Jonah hissed, and swatted at the boy's hand.

At the front of the classroom, Miss Rooke stopped talking and focused right on him. "Do you have something to say, Mister Hex?"

"No, ma'am," Jonah answered, and sank down in his seat. As was common in most schoolhouses, the benches the students sat on were attached to the desk behind them, and when Jonah began to slump, his tormentor took hold of the edges of his desk and gave it a jerk, causing Jonah to slide right out of his seat. With a yelp, he hit the floor, and the class burst out laughing.

The teacher rapped her ruler on her own desk until they settled down. "That's enough, children. Mister Hex, since you obviously can't be still long enough to finish the lesson, perhaps you should come up here and assist me until we're through."

"Yes'm." He got up, grabbed his reader off his desk, and started up the aisle, then came crashing down again as another boy tripped him, the book flying out of Jonah's hands and sliding under the other desks.

The kids erupted once again, and Miss Rooke ordered, "Quiet! This is getting out of hand. Mister Hex, you have until the count of ten to get up here, or else..." She slapped the ruler into her open palm. Jonah winced at the noise, and searched frantically for his reader. To his surprise, one of the boys that had been teasing him outside held it out to him with a smile. Jonah took it from him and hurried to the front of the classroom. "Much better," the teacher said, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Now, I want you to stand here and begin reading aloud from page sixty-three...and _enunciate_, young man, I won't tolerate lazy speech." She then took a few steps away from him, folding her arms across her bosom with the ruler at the ready.

Jonah opened his reader and started to look for the page in question when he noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the book. He couldn't recall it being there before, so he flipped to the section it was tucked into and unfolded it across the pages. The paper wasn't very large, just big enough to cover the pages, but considering what was scribbled on it, it was large enough. Rendered in smudgy black ink was a crude drawing of a naked woman on a bed, a slit of a smile on her face and a man, also naked and his privates exaggerated to almost-comical proportion, laying on top of her. A line ran from the woman's mouth to a sentence scrawled at the top of the paper: _Whatevur you doo dont tell Jonah!_

He could hear the teacher telling him to proceed, but Jonah had lost his voice. His eyes went from the paper to the children seated before him, some of them still trying to stifle giggles. When they saw Jonah's face begin to flush, they stopped fighting it and let go. In the midst of them was the boy that handed him the reader, sitting at his desk with a smug look on his face. At that moment, Jonah could feel something inside him snap -- all he could see was that boy, that mean-mouthed, heartless tormentor, and he decided that he wasn't going to take it anymore. Jonah stepped forward, and before he knew it, he was running down the aisle, raising the book still in his hand and bashing the boy across the nose with it. He fell out of his seat, and Jonah began pummeling him with his bare fists -- the other kids gathered round, yelling at the two of them as they tussled on the floor. Miss Rooke fought her way through them until she was within reach of Jonah, then grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him off the boy.

"What in God's name is wrong with you?" she said as Jonah kicked and hollered.

"It's _him_! It's all his doin', _look!" _Jonah worked his way out of her grip and picked his reader up off the floor, flipping through it to find the paper, but it was gone. "Who took it?" he yelled, whirling on his classmates. "Who's the skunk thet's hiding it fer him?"

"I have had enough of your misbehaving for one day." Miss Rooke took hold of Jonah's arm and dragged him over to the door outside, swatting him repeatedly on the behind with her ruler as she did so. "Get out of my classroom," she said, forcing him down the steps and into the schoolyard, "and don't come back until you've learned to act like a civilized human being!" The teacher then headed back inside, pausing long enough to say, "Tell your parents they can expect a visit from me very soon!" before closing the door.

Jonah stood there for a minute, rubbing his sore backside and glaring at the schoolhouse -- he could hear the children carrying on in there, then Miss Rooke's voice overpowering them until they settled down. _It ain't muh fault, _he thought, finally turning away from the building and beginning the long journey home. _It ain't never muh fault, but Ah'm always the one thet gets blamed._ At least he got a few good licks in this time...and if that kid, or _any_ kid, ever tried to talk foul about his Ma again, he'd give 'em a hundred times worse, yessir. He didn't care if they never let him go back to school again, Jonah wasn't gonna let 'em make up lies about his Ma no more.

As Jonah neared home, he could see a wagon parked out front. Thinking Pa got back early, he slowed down -- he knew the man would tan his hide if he discovered Jonah had been fighting. When he got closer, however, he realized it was the drummer's wagon he'd passed on the way to school. _Reckon he was right, he did have something worth sellin' tuh Ma,_ Jonah thought as he walked past the wagon to the front door. He went inside, expecting to see Ma and the salesman sitting at the kitchen table, but there was no one there. Then he heard laughter coming from his parents' bedroom, and he headed on down the hall to find out what was going on.

The door was open just a crack, and when Jonah looked through it, he saw his mother in the arms of Mr. Dazzleby. She was wearing a fine new dress, certainly nothing like he'd ever seen her wear before, and playing with the man's necktie. "Please, Preston," she said, "how do you expect me to finish packing if you won't keep your hands off me?"

"Why bother with packing?" the salesman answered. "So long as you travel with me, my dear Virginia, you'll never want for anything." He then leaned close and kissed her full on the lips.

Jonah clutched at the doorframe, feeling suddenly faint. "Ma?"

Ginny pushed herself away from the man at the sound of her son's voice, saying, "J-Jonah? Is that you, sweetheart?" She opened the door further and saw him standing there, his face pale and eyes wide. "What are you doing home so early, dear? Are you sick?" She knelt down and went to place a hand against his forehead, but he shied away.

"Why...why did yuh..." He couldn't finish the sentence, it was too awful for him to utter. Instead, he pointed at Dazzleby, who busied himself with smoothing out his suitcoat.

"It's not what you think, sweetheart. Pres...Mr. Dazzleby...he's going to help us," she said. "You were right, Jonah: your Pa is mean to us, very mean. But Mr. Dazzleby wants to take us away from all that. We'll go someplace safe, where Pa will never find us." Like last night, Ginny didn't look directly at her son when she talked. "It'll just be me an' him at first, an' once we're all settled, we'll come back for you. So you've got to be strong until then, sweetheart. You..." She pressed a hand over her mouth, and Dazzleby came up behind her and helped her to her feet.

"Don't you worry, son," the salesman said, "Preston W. Dazzleby is a man of his word. If I say that you'll be delivered from this squalor, then you can count on it being so." He then turned to Ginny and said, "Now, my darling, we'd best get moving, before your errant husband returns home to roost."

Jonah followed the two of them out of the shack on numb legs -- he felt like he was walking through a nightmare. As the man loaded Ma's bag onto the wagon, she gave Jonah a hug and kissed his cheek and told him to be a good boy while she was gone. "Please, don't leave me here," he begged her, tears rolling down his face, "take me with yuh. Ah won't cause no fuss, Ah swear."

"I can't, sweetheart. I wish I could, but..."

"We're ready to go, Virginia!" Dazzleby called from the driver's seat of the wagon.

"Coming!" Ginny kissed her son's cheek one last time. "I'll see you real soon, Jonah...I love you."

"Ah love yuh too, Ma." He watched his mother climb aboard the wagon, giving the salesman a kiss as she settled in next to him. With a flick of the reins, the wagon trundled away from the homeplace, and as it faded off in the distance, Jonah fell to his knees in the yard, shaking and sobbing. He was still there when his father arrived home a few hours later, and when he told the man what had happened, Woodson whipped him with his belt for not trying to stop her.

* * *

_**1849:**_

It was a beautiful spring day, but Jonah hardly took notice of it. He was busy mending the barbwire fence that marked the border of the Hex homestead, and if he didn't have it done by the time Pa got home, he could count on having the tar whupped out of him. The man was drunk almost all the time now that Ma was gone, and he'd taken to beating Jonah for even the slightest transgression. Some days he hurt so bad he could barely get out of bed, but he had no choice -- Pa expected him to cook all the meals and do all the other chores that had been his mother's responsibility in addition to his own, leaving little time for normal boyhood activities. He hadn't even been back to school since Miss Rooke threw him out of class, and surprisingly, he missed it.

Wearing thick work gloves, Jonah twisted the new wire around the fence post and gave it a good tug to make sure it was secure, then leaned against the post and wiped sweat from his forehead. _Just a little further tuh go, Jonah boy, _he thought, _then yuh kin head back tuh the house an' rest a bit._ He picked up the box of tools and wire, looked down the length of fence before him, and sighed. _The quicker yuh work, the sooner it's done._ As he made his way along the fence, he saw movement in the tall buffalo grass beyond it. At first, he thought it was a dog or some other large animal, but then he caught sight of a blue shirt. "Who's there?" Jonah called out.

The movement abruptly stopped. Never taking his eyes from the spot where he'd seen the blue shirt, Jonah bent down, grabbed a hammer out of the tool box, and held it behind his back. He then slipped between the fence wires and slowly approached the spot, saying, "Yuh'd best come out afore Ah..."

A hand suddenly shot out and grabbed Jonah by the ankle, pulling him down. He raised the hammer to defend himself, but before he had a chance, a handgun was shoved in his face, cocked and ready to fire. A rough-looking man with dark hair glared at him from out of the grass. "And you'd best drop that hammer before I drop mine," he said. Jonah did as he was told, and the man let go of him, but the gun never wavered. "Pretty stupid, boy, walkin' out here with nothin' but hardware in your hand. Would've been better off runnin' back to the house and gettin' your folks."

"Ain't nobody home," Jonah said, then silently chided himself for telling the man such.

The man grinned. "Even better. Now how 'bout you help me up? My side's all torn to Hell." And indeed it was: the whole right side of the man's shirt was soaked with blood.

"Jeez, mister, whut happened?"

"Get me to your house over yonder and I'll tell you all about it." The man's legs were shaky, and he leaned hard on Jonah's small frame the whole way there. Once inside, the man collapsed in one of the chairs by the kitchen table while Jonah cast about for something to use as bandages. "No need to get fancy, boy, just grab a few rags," the man told him as he laid the gun on the table and stripped off his ruined shirt. "I ain't got time to waste."

"Yessir." The boy set a basin of water and a handful of clean rags on the table. "Who shot yuh, anyhow?"

"Goddam Texas Ranger. Ambushed me this morning...didn't even have the decency to let me finish breakfast before shootin' me and my horse full of holes. Damn thing dropped dead a few miles from here."

"A Ranger? Really?" Jonah had heard about them -- they were the bravest men in all of Texas. "Yuh must've done something real awful tuh get them gunnin' fer yuh."

"Well, the fact that I killed his partner the day before yesterday probably didn't help." He picked up the handgun and said, "It was worth it, though, when you consider this fine piece of iron I took for my own. It's a damn sight better than my old pepperbox, that's for sure." He saw the way the boy stared at the gun. "You ever seen a Walker Colt before, boy?" Jonah shook his head, and the man told him, "Well, now you have. And unless you ever run into a Ranger, you never will again. You know how to shoot?"

"Yessir! Ah'm a crack shot! But..." Jonah looked down at the floor. "Muh Pa says Ah'm too stupid tuh be trusted with a gun."

He flipped the gun around, holding the butt out to the boy. "Reckon Pa ain't here right now, though, is he?" Jonah took it, almost dropping the heavy weapon, and ran his fingers over the smooth revolving cylinder in admiration as the man cleaned up the wound in his side. Lucky for him, the bullet had passed on through, but that didn't make it hurt any less. "Trust me, boy, just 'cause your pa might be bigger than you don't mean that he knows everything. Hell, my own pa used to tell me that I wasn't good for nothin' but pushin' a plow, but I sure showed him. You walk into any saloon from here to the Mexican border and ask 'em 'bout me, and they'll all tell you I'm a man to be reckoned with, I don't fool around one damn bit." He packed a wad of cloth over the wound. "Now set down that iron for a bit and help me with this, okay boy?" Jonah did as he was told, and wrapped some long strips of rag around the man's midsection. "That's damn fine work, son. You're handy to have..."

Suddenly, there was a knock at the front door. Jumping up and grabbing the Colt, the man hissed at Jonah, "Who's that? That your folks?"

"N-no, Pa wouldn't..."

He grabbed his bloody shirt off the floor and began to back down the hallway, the gun trained on the door. "Whoever it is, get rid of 'em. And don't say a word about me, you hear?"

Jonah waited until the man ducked into his parents' bedroom before opening the front door. Waiting on the other side was Sheriff Harper and some of his deputies from Haverville, along with a tall Tejano he didn't recognize. The guns holstered on the belt across his chest, however, were very familiar: twin Walker Colts, with the badge of the Texas Rangers pinned above them. "Ah need tuh speak with your pa, boy. He about?" the sheriff asked.

"No sir. He...he's gone fer the day, might not be back 'til suppertime."

"Well, maybe you can help us," the Tejano said, and knelt down to meet Jonah's eyes. "We're looking for a man...he's wounded, and dangerous. We found his horse not too far from here, and we figure he might've headed this way." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper with WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE - BART MALLORY printed in bold type above a picture of the man inside the house. "Does he look familiar to you?"

Jonah said nothing, only bit his lower lip. "Don't waste our time, boy!" Sheriff Harper snapped. "You seen him or not?"

Staring at the ground, he said, "No sir, Ah've been inside all day. Ah ain't seen no one."

"Are you sure? Come clean, son," the Ranger prodded, "don't be afraid to tell us."

"Tuh Hell with him. Boy's as useless as his pa." The sheriff spun on his heel and walked back to his horse. "Let's get movin' afore thet bastard gets any more distance 'tween us than he already has."

"Right behind you." Jonah watched as the Tejano mounted up alongside the sheriff and rode off, giving the boy an odd look as he did so. The boy tried to be casual about shutting the door, but inside he was shaking -- he'd just told a bald-faced lie to a lawman...and a Ranger! They could probably put him in jail for that!

After a minute, Jonah went down the hall and opened the bedroom door. "Good job, boy, I heard the whole thing," Bart Mallory told him as he pulled on one of Pa's shirts to replace his own ruined one. "Now how 'bout some chow before I skedaddle? Gonna have to wait a bit to make sure the coast's clear, might as well have a bite." The two of them returned to the kitchen, and Mallory helped himself to some whiskey as Jonah fixed him a plate of food. "You've saved my butt twice now, boy, and don't think I ain't grateful. Hell, you're my new lucky charm." He reached out and tousled Jonah's hair when the boy laid the plate before him.

"Ah shouldn't have lied. They's the law, an' they help folks..."

"The law don't help no one but themselves, trust me," Mallory told him around a mouthful of food. "Don't let the badge fool you: wave enough money in front of a lawman, and they suddenly become very blind to all sorts of crooked deeds, even murder. I've bribed my way out of more than one tight spot, so you know I know what I'm talkin' 'bout." Once he'd finished his meal, Mallory sparked up a smoke and asked Jonah how well he knew the surrounding territory.

"Ah know 'tween here an' town pretty good...Pa don't let me go much farther than thet." He fell silent, then asked, "You been a lot of places?"

"Hell yeah. Been all over the damn place, nothin' holds me back. Just give me a gun an' a horse, an' I'm set. No boundaries, no ties to nothin'...just pure freedom." He took a drag on his smoke. "You like the sound of that, boy?"

"Hell yeah," he said quietly, then added, "but Ah cain't do thet. Ah'm too young yet...maybe in a few years..."

"Ain't no such thing. What're you...ten? Eleven? Hell, I ran away from home when I was eleven, never regretted it since. You can't let your pa or nobody else hold you back from what you really want. This is a mean world, boy, you gotta fight for everything you want, every inch of it." He leaned towards Jonah and said, "So tell me: what do _you_ want, deep down?"

Jonah lowered his head in thought, and when he raised it again, he had a dead serious look in his eyes. "Ah want tuh ride with yuh, Mr. Mallory. Ah want a Colt of muh own, an' nobody tellin' me whut tuh do all the time."

"Well now, sounds like I might have myself a new partner," Mallory said with a grin. "If you're gonna ride with me, you'd better tell me your name, so's I know who to shout for when the chips are down."

"Muh name's Jonah Hex, sir...an' Ah don't fool around one damn bit, same as yerself."

* * *

Hidden in the woods not far from the Hex homestead, Sheriff Harper hunkered down next to the Texas Ranger, muttering, "Ah don't see why we're wastin' time here. Mallory's gonna get away if'n we don't get a move-on!"

"No, he ain't." The Ranger, whose name was Ramirez, smoothed down the bandana covering his long black hair and kept his eyes glued on the shack. "If you'd been paying attention instead of blowing up at the boy, you might've noticed the bloody rag on the kitchen table. There were a few drops of blood on the floor too, as well as on the threshold. Plus that boy seemed awful nervous from the moment he opened the door. If Mallory ain't in there, I'm Santa Anna."

In Harper's opinion, the half-breed Mex beside him may as well _be_ Santa Anna, Ranger's badge or no. He didn't care that the man's father had died at the Alamo, all Mexes were the same to him. "So how long we gotta sit here afore you..." he began to say, then stopped when Jonah stepped out the front door with Mallory right behind him, a shotgun slung over his shoulder. "Sonovabitch, there he is!" Harper leapt to his feet, but Ramirez forced him back down.

"Hold up a minute. Let him think he's in the clear, then we'll head after him." The sheriff started to object, but the Tejano told him, "He's got the boy with him, we can't risk a shot yet." He watched the two of them walk into the stable, then come out a few minutes later, riding double on a horse. "Soon as the boy's away from him, though, it's open season on Bart Mallory."

* * *

Sitting in the saddle in front of Mallory, Jonah asked, "Why yuh want tuh go into town? They's a-lookin' fer yuh high an' low!"

"They's lookin' fer me out there," he answered, thumbing back the way they'd come, "and no way in Hell is they gonna expect me to be so bold as to ride right into town. Of course, they don't know I've got a new partner, do they, Hex?"

"No sir!" His heart swelled with pride -- Mallory talked to him like an equal, didn't hit him or call him stupid like all the other grownups always did. It was a dream come true. "Whut we gonna do when we get there?"

"Well, we need to lay low for awhile, which means we'll need money...so we're gonna make a withdrawal from the bank." Jonah was about to say he didn't have any money in the Haverville Bank, then realized what Mallory meant. "After that, you and me's gonna ride for Mexico and find some sleepy little town to sack out in. I'll teach you to shoot better'n any Ranger and ride faster'n the Devil, then we'll come on back to Texas and rip the whole damn state wide open! How you like them apples?"

"Hell yeah!" They passed the town's border, and Jonah directed Mallory to where the bank was located. He walked the horse over to a hitching post down the street from it, then led Jonah to a nearby alley.

"Listen up, Hex. Most folks won't expect a kid to be helpin' out with a bank robbery, so you're my ace in the hole. I want you to stand out front and be my lookout while I go inside and do the deed. Can you do that for me, boy?" Jonah nodded, and Mallory flashed him a grin. "Great. Now I'm gonna trust you with something, and you've gotta promise to be careful with it, don't use it unless you absolutely have to." The outlaw tucked his Colt beneath Jonah's belt, then pulled out the boy's shirt so it fell over the gun. "I know you've got more experience with the shotgun, but it's too obvious. Now how 'bout you show me how fast you can draw that sucker out?"

It took a few tries, but soon Jonah got it down pat, moving his shirt aside with his right hand and whipping out the Colt with his left. Mallory told him he was a natural, and tousled his hair again before sending him ahead to see if the coast was clear. Jonah did so eagerly, his head held high and a smile on his face -- he was his own man now, yessir, he had a gun and everything. When he got in front of the bank, he casually leaned against the wall, then looked back the way he'd come and gave Mallory a nod. The man nodded back and stepped out of the alley, smoking a cigarette and strolling up the boardwalk. Passing Jonah, he whispered, "Be ready for anything, partner," then entered the bank, shotgun at the ready.

As Jonah kept an eye peeled for trouble, he could hear Mallory inside ordering everyone to get down on the floor. He wondered just how much money was in the bank, and if they'd be able to carry it all with only one horse. _Maybe we should grab another one afore we go,_ he thought, and looked down the street to see if there were any unattended mounts nearby. While he didn't spot any, he did see one of Sheriff Harper's deputies headed his way. _Oh Lord, whut do Ah do?_ He tried to stay clam as the man came towards him, but then the deputy broke into a run and reached out for Jonah, grabbing the boy and pinning his arms to his sides. He couldn't reach the Colt, so he hollered and kicked at the deputy until the man clamped a hand over his mouth and dragged him away from the bank. Jonah then saw the Ranger, Sheriff Harper, and two other deputies run into the bank, guns drawn.

Moments later, a flurry of gunshots rang out. Jonah managed to slip out of the deputy's arms and run inside the bank, but it was too late: Bart Mallory was sprawled out on the floor in a pool of blood. The boy cried out and tried to go over to the body, but the Ranger held him back.

"Don't worry, son," he told Jonah, "it's all over."

* * *

The Ranger escorted Jonah back home, the boy not speaking the whole time. Ramirez figured him to be in shock over the ordeal, and tried to reassure the boy that all was well, he'd soon be home safe and sound. That didn't seem to help Jonah's disposition one bit, and he could see why once the shack came into view and Woodson stormed across the yard towards them.

"Where the Hell yuh been, boy? Ah come home an' there ain't no supper on the table, the fence still ain't finished, an' yuh left the tools all scattered about! Damn lazy little..." He grabbed hold of Jonah the moment he dismounted and slapped him across the face. "Get thet horse back in the stable, then go inside an' fix me up some supper...an' if'n Ah'm feelin' generous, Ah'll let yuh have some too." He gave Jonah another whack as the boy took the horse's reins, then turned his attention to the Ranger on his own mount, saying, "An' who the Hell are yuh?"

"I'm Antonio Ramirez, Mr. Hex, with the Texas Rangers. Your son was kidnapped by an outlaw who forced him to assist in a bank robbery. Luckily, the man didn't harm him before..."

_"Bank robbery?!?_" Woodson removed his hat and said, "Yuh'll have tuh forgive me...Ah try tuh teach him right from wrong, but it's tough tuh do all by muh lonesome. It's his damn mother's fault, runnin' off an' leavin' me with thet brat. Well, don't yuh worry none, Ah'll knock any notion he's got of bein' an outlaw right outta him."

"I don't think you understand," Ramirez answered. "Jonah doesn't need discipline, he needs a sense of security. Bart Mallory could have killed him today, and you beating on him the moment he gets home won't help his state of mind any."

Woodson's expression darkened. "Ah don't need no fancy Ranger a-comin' on muh property an' tellin' me how tuh raise muh boy!" he snapped. "Less'n yo're plannin' on chargin' him with something, he ain't yer damn problem no more, so get the Hell outta here!" He hit Ramirez's horse with his hat, startling the animal. The Ranger got it under control easily enough, and glared at the elder Hex before turning the horse around and riding away. Woodson then walked over to the stable just as Jonah was coming out.

"Ah'm sorry, Pa. Ah won't never..." he started to say, but the words were cut off as his father smacked him across the mouth. Jonah stumbled back into the stable as his father advanced on him, pulling off his belt.

"Not bad enough yuh misbehave 'round here, now yo're goin' off an' breakin' the law...bringin' shame tuh my good name..." The belt snapped out like the crack of a whip and cut into Jonah's skin. "Ah ain't gonna tolerate yer foolishness no longer!" The boy covered his head with his arms and fell to the ground, but the lashes continued to rain down. He wanted it to stop, he'd be good if Pa would just stop, but he couldn't do anything but lay there, he was helpless...

Then Jonah remembered the gun. He hadn't told the lawmen about the Colt Mallory had given him, it was still hidden under his shirt. _This is a mean world, boy, _the outlaw had told him_, you gotta fight for everything you want, every inch of it._ If he ever wanted to be free of his father, Jonah realized, he would have to start fighting back, the sooner the better. In one perfect fluid motion, he rolled over onto his back, drew the gun, and pointed it at his father's head.

Woodson took a step back, stuttering, "W-w-whut the Devil...where did yuh get thet?" Jonah didn't answer, he merely thumbed back the hammer, and the man's eyes grew wide. "Have yuh lost yer damn mind, son? Yuh don't want tuh hurt yer dear old Pa, do yuh?"

"Yes Ah do," he said coldly, holding the gun in a two-fisted grip as he sat on the stable floor, bits of straw sticking to his clothes. "Ah ain't gonna let yuh whup me no more...even if it means Ah gotta kill yuh."

Woodson swallowed hard as he looked down the gunbarrel, then forced a smile onto his face. "Yuh really think yuh got the guts tuh kill yer old man? Hell, son, yuh kin barely hold thet gun steady," he said. "Yep, them arms of yers is definitely a-tremblin'."

"Shut up." His finger tightened on the trigger. "Ah'm gonna do it if'n yuh don't shut up."

"Then do it already, if'n yo're so dead-set on it. Reckon yuh ain't really got the guts tuh pull the trigger, though." He stepped forward, reaching a hand out towards the gun. "Takes a real man tuh kill another man...an' thet's something a coward like yerself will never be."

"Shut up!" Jonah said again. He tried to jerk away as his father grabbed the Colt and forced his hand down, slamming it against the floor. The weapon discharged, but the bullet hit nothing more than the stable wall, and the man soon twisted it out of his son's grip. Woodson then took the gun and clubbed Jonah on the head with the butt end until he was barely conscious.

"Don't yuh even _think_ 'bout doin' something like thet ever again," Woodson said as he stood up, slipping the Colt into his pocket, "'cause if'n yuh do, Ah swear Ah'll snap yer goddam neck." He then turned and left the boy lying on the floor of the stable, broken and bleeding.

Not long after sunset, Jonah managed to drag himself to his feet and stumble across the yard to the house. He found Pa passed out at the kitchen table, an empty bottle of whiskey still in his hand. Jonah moved through the house as quietly as he could, cleaning himself up before finally collapsing in his bed. Every inch of his body hurt, he could taste blood in the back of his mouth...but deep down, he felt good. For just the briefest of moments out in the stable, he'd seen fear in his father's eyes, and Jonah had put it there. _He's got good reason tuh be afraid of me, _he thought,_ Ah ain't gonna be a little boy forever. Someday Ah will pull thet trigger on him, an' then he'll know thet he was in the wrong all this time. Ah ain't no coward, dammit, Ah ain't worthless, Ah know it...an' someday, so will Pa..._

_Someday..._


	3. Part 2: Into the Wilderness

**PART 2: INTO THE WILDERNESS**

_**1851:**_

In Woodson Hex's opinion, the situation was getting out of hand. It had been two years since Jonah had dared to pull a gun on his own father, and in that time, the boy had grown even more rebellious. Talking back, trying to run away (one time he made it as far as his Aunt Aretha's house, but his older cousins soon dragged him all the way back to Haverville), even trading blows with his old man without the slightest hint of fear. Every one of those offenses earned Jonah a beat-down, but that still wasn't enough to deter him. In fact, as the boy neared his thirteenth birthday, Woodson was discovering that his son had become a real threat to him -- more often than not lately, the elder Hex was walking away from those little spats with a black eye or bloody lip. Jonah had fast hands, blurry-fast, and Woodson was only getting slower as old age crept up on him. It was conceivable that there might come a day when the boy would finally overpower him, and the thought of being bested by someone as mule-stupid as Jonah, only son or no, was too much to take. Yessir, the situation was definitely getting out of hand.

The problem weighed on the man's mind for quite some time with no foreseeable solution. He damned Ginny every day for bearing him such a disrespectful child, then up and leaving that hellion with him. If he ever saw her again, he'd make that whore pay for forcing him to shoulder the burden all these years. He had no convenient escape from his fatherly duties, no one to dump Jonah on like she'd done...

Or did he? He remembered a conversation he'd had with one of the Apache elders he sold his moonshine to not long ago, about how there were fewer young ones in their tribe now than in earlier years. Their numbers were thinning, but the work to be done had not decreased.

A wicked grin spread across Woodson Hex's face. Once again, he'd amazed himself with his craftiness. Yes indeed, this had to be his craftiest plan yet!

* * *

A few weeks after his revelation, Woodson informed his son that they were going to be pulling up stakes and heading west to California -- the gold rush had been in full swing for a couple years now, but the man told him that, with a little hard work, they could carve themselves out a nice place alongside all the other Forty-Niners. "But first, we're gonna have tuh raise us a grubstake," he said, "so's we'll have money tuh buy equipment an' a spot o' land tuh work on."

Jonah was quite agreeable with this -- the thought of getting away from Haverville, even if it w_as_ with his father, excited him. In fact, the idea seemed to have an effect on his father's attitude as well: the man became less overbearing, and barely laid a hand on Jonah as they worked together on selling off as many household goods as they could, sacking the money away for a new life in California. Woodson even managed to talk the town bank into buying their shack and the few acres of land it sat on. Once that deal was complete, the two of them loaded up the wagon with the few possessions they'd decided to haul across country with them, and bid Haverville a fond farewell. But before they could get underway proper, they had to make one last stop: Woodson had squeezed the final few drops out of his still, bottled them up, and planned on selling them to a tribe of Apache who were camped out along the route he and his son would be following. When he told Jonah this, the boy tried to hide his nervousness -- while he'd seen natives from time to time in town, he'd never really been exposed to them en masse. His father always told him that they were all childlike savages, eager to trade their pelts and handmade crafts for shiny baubles and booze. He also said that they had no qualms about gutting white folks if they felt so inclined, but Woodson was so fearless that they wouldn't dare touch him. Smart-mouthed little boys, however, was a whole 'nother story.

A couple days out from Haverville, they reached the encampment, which was set up near a small river. The boy rubbernecked as they rode past a few natives, who barely paid him a glance. They were dressed mostly in buckskin, though some had on store-bought cotton shirts and trousers like Jonah and his father wore. At the man's insistence, Jonah stayed on the wagon while Woodson climbed down and approached the Indians walking towards them, including an older-looking man with graying hair and an air of authority about him. "How do there, chief!" the elder Hex called out. "Well, it took a mite longer than Ah thought, but Ah finally got here with the goods." As he said this, he hitched a thumb back towards the wagon and chuckled.

The chief looked past him, fixing his dark-eyed gaze on Jonah and the wagon itself in a way that made the boy self-conscious. It certainly wasn't the look of a "childlike savage", that was for sure. "Just as you promised," he said in a softly-accented voice, "though your reasons for doing so are still unclear."

"Fella's got tuh do whut he has tuh do if'n he wants tuh get ahead in this world. 'Sides, Ah look at this as a mutual favor." He and the chief walked away and out of earshot, but before doing so, the chief spoke to one of the Indians beside him in their native tongue, and he and two others came closer to the wagon. The two moved to the back of the wagon and unloaded the crates of moonshine, but the one the chief spoke to approached Jonah as he sat in the driver's seat, and gestured for the boy to get down.

"Nuh-uh, Pa said tuh stay put," Jonah said, but the Apache didn't seem to understand, and tried to grab the boy's wrist. He backed away, shouting, "Quit thet! Ah ain't movin'!" The Indian didn't stop, though, going so far as to climb partly onto the wagon to reach him. Jonah kicked at him when he did so, yelling for his father, and after a couple of whacks, the Indian took hold of Jonah's leg and pulled him off the wagon. "Let go of me!" the boy yelled. "_Pa! _Pa, help me!" The man didn't even look in Jonah's direction as the boy struggled in his captor's grasp before finally managing to twist free. He ran across the encampment towards his father, but was soon tackled by another native before reaching him. He called out for help again as his new opponent tried to hold him down, and this time, his cries seemed to catch Woodson's attention.

"Boy, whut in the blue Hell are yuh doin'?" His father walked over to where Jonah lay pinned, the chief right behind him. "Yuh'd best stop thet tomfoolery right quick, these folks won't put up with it like Ah do." He turned to the chief, hat in hand, and said, "Ah apologize fer this, Ah really do...but at least now yuh see whut Ah've been tellin' yuh: he's a damn hard worker, and fast too, but don't yuh dare turn yer back on him, 'cause Lord knows whut sort of trouble he'll get into."

The chief nodded. "It may take some time, but I'm sure he will soon learn how to behave properly."

"Pa, whut's he talkin' 'bout?" Jonah asked, doing his best to lift his head off the ground.

"He's talkin' 'bout how he's gonna whup yuh into shape, yuh ungrateful little brat! Ah'm sick of yer sass and yer scrappin'...if'n yuh ain't willin' tuh give me an ounce of respect, then Ah'm cuttin' yuh loose." He tilted his head towards the chief. "Maybe a few years with these folk'll show yuh just how good yuh really had it." Jonah could only gape at his father as the man finished his business with the Apache leader, arguing that a healthy white boy like him was surely worth more than the chief was offering. They soon reached an agreement, and the chief ordered that the appropriate amount of goods and supplies be loaded onto Woodson's wagon. "Don't worry, son," he told Jonah as he readied to leave, "when Ah strike it rich, Ah'll come on back tuh see if'n yuh improved any, an if'n Ah like whut Ah see...well, Ah'm sure me an' the chief kin work out some sort of arrangement." He laughed as he climbed into the driver's seat.

"Yuh cain't do this tuh me!" Jonah cried, and beat against the Indian restraining him until he let go. The boy ran to the wagon and began to climb on board beside his father. "Don't leave me here, Pa! Ah swear, Ah'll be good, Ah'll do whutever yuh say, just don't..."

"Yuh had yer chance, an' yuh made a mess of it. Time tuh deal with the consequences!" Woodson lifted his foot and kicked Jonah square in the face, knocking him backwards off the wagon. "Always remember, son: y'all may be the _fastest_ Hex, but Ah'm the _craftiest_ Hex!"

Jonah lay on his back in the dirt as he heard the wagon roll away, his father's laughter fading along with it. "Don't leave me here, Pa..." he said weakly, his vision going black around the edges from the blow to the head. Before he fell unconscious, he could see some of the natives gather around him, looking down upon the newcomer to their tribe.

"Please...don't leave me..."

* * *

When Jonah came to, he found himself kneeling near one of the many tipis in the encampment, his hands lashed behind him to a pole. The left side of his face felt swollen, and his arms ached from the awkward position. He lifted his head and peered around him -- there were some Apache women preparing food nearby, but none of them appeared to pay him any mind. "Hey...hey there," he called out, "cut me loose...please..." One of the women looked his way, then went back to work. "Don't ignore me! Cut me loose! Ah didn't do nothin' tuh y'all!" The woman glanced at him again, then turned to a young girl and spoke in Apache. The girl stood up and came over to where Jonah was bound. "Please, cut me loose," he said. "Ah don't want no trouble, Ah just want tuh go home." It didn't occur to Jonah that he really didn't _have_ a home anymore, but that was beside the point.

She regarded Jonah for a moment, then went back to the other women and retrieved a small clay pot filled with water. "Ah don't want a drink, Ah want tuh get outta here!" he snapped, but she ignored his protest and knelt beside him. She then reached behind him, pulled out a bandana sticking out of Jonah's back pocket, and dipped one end into the water. Carefully, she began to daub at the swelling on his cheek, and he could tell by the way it stung that his face must have been badly cut. She was just trying to clean him up. "Thanks," he muttered as she finished, and looked her over. The girl appeared to be a little younger than him, with long black hair plaited down her back. "Too bad yuh don't know English, 'cause Ah don't know a lick of Apache."

"I know...small," she said. "Know better when not loud."

Jonah's eyebrows shot up. "Oh. Sorry, but...yuh didn't say nothin'." He tilted his head towards the group of women. "How 'bout them?"

"Some. High Cloud speaks most with the whites. He knows your words well."

"Who's High Cloud?" he asked. She pointed across the encampment to the chief, and Jonah nodded. "Good, maybe Ah kin talk him into lettin' me go."

She shook her head, saying, "You stay, help in camp, after High Cloud show you."

"Show me whut?"

"Your proper place," a voice behind him said. A barechested boy about Jonah's age stepped into his view, a look of contempt on the young Indian's face. He gestured to Jonah's bindings and said, "This is a good start, I think."

Jonah was about spit out a rather nasty epithet, but the girl pressed the bandana against his face like she was still cleaning the wound, her palm covering his mouth. "High Cloud show what you help with," she told him, then looked up at the other boy and said something in Apache. The two of them went back and forth a few times, Jonah oblivious to what was being said, then the other boy made a noise of disgust and walked away. Only after he was gone did the girl remove her hand from Jonah's mouth. "Forgive...afraid you would be loud again," she explained.

"Who was thet charmer?" he asked her.

"High Cloud's son..." She stopped with a frown. "I do not have the words for name."

"Well, reckon Ah'll have tuh pick up some Apache sooner or later. How do y'all say it?"

"Noh-Tante."

He nodded again. "Seems Noh-Tante ain't too thrilled with me hangin' 'bout, or do all white folks get thet warm reception from him?"

She didn't understand all the words, but she got the gist of what he'd said. "He say...he say whites only know how to hurt. I say you are young, and can learn good ways like we know, but he does not hear. He say..." One of the women called to the girl, breaking her off mid-sentence. "My mother needs me," she told him, and stood up.

"Wait...yuh told me everybody else's name, but Ah don't know yers."

The girl hesitated, then said, "White Fawn."

"Pleased tuh meet yuh, White Fawn. Muh name's Jonah." The girl then returned to her mother's side, leaving Jonah to contemplate his new situation.

* * *

As White Fawn had told him, High Cloud soon let Jonah know just what was expected of him: he was to act as a servant to the tribe, and the chief would accept nothing less than absolute obedience. He made it very clear from the start that, should Jonah try and fight back like he'd done earlier, the punishment would be severe. "But we are not needlessly cruel," High Cloud explained. "Your father spoke of you like a wild horse that refuses to be broken, but I do not believe it to be so. Sometimes a horse responds better to a gentle hand than to a lash...though that does not mean I will not keep that lash near at hand."

Despite the warning, Jonah did try and escape at the first opportunity, when the tribe broke camp a few months after he joined -- the Mescalero, which was the branch of Apache Jonah now belonged to, were nomadic and would move all across the Southwest so as to better make use of the land's resources. He earned himself a sound beating for that stunt. Afterward, High Cloud gave him the same speech again, and he did so the second and third time Jonah had to be disciplined as well. He never yelled at the boy despite this, talking instead in the same soft-spoken manner that he always used. Slowly, Jonah began to trust the chief in a way that he never trusted his father -- while the boy was a second-class citizen in the tribe, and forced to work at menial, sometimes back-breaking tasks day in and day out, High Cloud would never let the other Apache mistreat Jonah or deny him basic comforts, something Pa would do to him for no other reason than the man was in a bad mood. For Jonah, a simple thing like knowing that the chief wouldn't let him go hungry meant a lot.

He received no such kindness from Noh-Tante, however. As High Cloud's son, he carried some weight of his own, and liked to use it to make Jonah's life harder than it already was -- if there was a particularly disgusting or humiliating chore to be done, Noh-Tante did his best to make sure Jonah was stuck with it. The young Indian's behavior reminded the boy of the bullies he'd endured at school, only now any sort of retaliation was out of the question, lest he wanted to risk something far worse than a whipping. Complaining to High Cloud didn't do any good, as it seemed his son could do no wrong in his eyes. The only person that Jonah could vent his frustrations to was White Fawn, who had become a great help to him as he coped with his new life among the Apache. She taught him how to speak her language, as well as all the small, unseen rules embedded in every culture. In turn, he helped her improve her English and told her about how white people lived and worked, though when she asked about his family, Jonah would usually fall silent. He thought of White Fawn as a friend, probably the first true friend he'd ever had in his short life, but he couldn't bring himself to talk about his mother and father with her.

There were nights when he'd dream about his parents, and where they might be. Pa was usually in some California saloon, drunk as a skunk and whooping it up, gold nuggets bursting out of his coat pockets. His Ma was in a fine parlor with plush furniture and flowers everywhere, wearing that lovely new dress he'd last seen her in, with Preston W. Dazzleby, seller of Fine Dry Goods & Sundries, fawning over her and draping a sparkling necklace around her neck. And unseen in both tableaus would be Jonah, crying out at the realization that his parents had each gained the life they really wanted...one without him in it.

Eventually, he would wake up, and spend the rest of the night staring into the darkness, the blankets pulled tight around him and a hollow ache in his chest.

* * *

_**1853:**_

It was late summer when the Indian messenger came to their camp, telling High Cloud that a meeting of chiefs was being called -- the white soldiers were chipping away at the tribes on the plains, and steps needed to be taken lest the children of the Great Spirit be wiped out. High Cloud told the messenger that he would join his fellow leaders at the gathering place, then chose three of his finest warriors to accompany him on the journey, as well as his son -- there would come a day when Noh-Tante would succeed his father, so the sooner he became familiar with the other chiefs, the better. He also decided to bring Jonah along to act as servant to him and the others while they were at the gathering. During the time the boy had lived among the Apache, he'd learned to control much of his anger, and when left alone to do his work, his face was placid and his body relaxed...but if he was provoked into fighting, it was like watching a snake strike out of the grass: fast, vicious, and over in seconds. Such actions would still earn Jonah a beating, but some in the tribe respected him for that ability to go from absolute calm to full battle-readiness in the blink of an eye. High Cloud himself was impressed more by how much this white child had changed from the one that had been brought to his camp two years before, and wondered if Jonah's father would even recognize him beneath the buckskin clothes and shoulder-length hair.

Leaving the rest of the band at their current encampment, High Cloud and his group set out for the meeting deep in the Kansas territory. Representatives from many tribal branches were present: Mescalero and Chiracahua Apache, Cheyenne, Comanche, Kiowa, and Arapaho all coming together under a flag of truce in order to address their common dilemma. For many days the elders argued about how to handle the problem -- some called for all-out war on the whites, slaughtering any who tread through their lands just as surely as the whites had been doing to them, while others still believed that a peace could be achieved. High Cloud stood with the latter, but his position was drastically outnumbered by those who had lost too much over the years.

Not every moment was spent in conference. When their respective chiefs had no need for their counsel, the warriors would meet for games of chance or sport. One of the more popular challenges was wrestling, with the two opponents grappling unarmed until one or the other emerged victorious. Noh-Tante took great delight in this, until he ran into a Kiowa brave that he simply couldn't overpower. After two resounding defeats by his hand, Noh-Tante decided to best him another way. "You are quite strong, I will admit," he told his opponent in the common language of the plains, "but I know of one in my party who you cannot stop."

"Who is he?" the Kiowa answered. "I have taken on all who came with you."

"Not all." He gestured to his friend Black Raven, who pulled Jonah into the fighting circle. The boy kicked and beat at him until he was tossed at the feet of the Kiowa. "Surely you can defeat a harmless white child," Noh-Tante said, smiling. He figured that either Jonah's fast hands would land enough blows to humiliate the other warrior, or the boy would be beaten senseless and the Apache could have a good laugh over it.

Jonah climbed to his feet, glaring at the chief's son. He took offense to the "child" comment more than anything else -- he was just a few months shy of fifteen, same as Noh-Tante -- but the laughter of the other Indians didn't help much. "This one hardly seems worth the trouble," the Kiowa declared, doing his best to save face, "but I think I have a more worthy foe for him." He called to some friends of his own, and they soon dragged another teenaged boy into the circle. Though his hair was dark and his skin tanned, Jonah could tell that his opponent was actually white -- he must have been a slave brought by the Kiowa, just as Jonah was enslaved to the Apache. "I think this is better," the warrior said, "let the two white dogs tear each other apart!"

The boys faced each other as the Indians goaded them into fighting, neither wanting any part of the nonsense, but having no choice. They took hold of each other's arms and circled for a moment, then the Kiowa slave forced Jonah down, trying to bend one of his arms behind his back. He worked his way loose and punched the other boy in the jaw, knocking him for a loop before Jonah rolled on top of him. The boy grunted and began to force him off, but Jonah dug in and leaned close to his ear -- from his vantage point, Jonah could see an odd strawberry-colored mark on the side of the boy's neck. "Quit strugglin'," he told him in English, "Ah don't want tuh hurt yuh."

"Then...get off me...can't breathe." The boy pushed Jonah off with a strength that surprised him, then jumped on him and wrapped an arm around Jonah's neck, causing him to gasp for breath now. "I don't want to hurt you, either," the boy whispered to him, "but you can't imagine what they might do to me if I let you win."

Jonah slammed an elbow into the boy's gut until he loosened his grip, then twisted away before the boy could grab hold of him again. "Yuh think they'll let _me_ off easy?" he said, his voice lost amongst the shouts from the spectators. "Thet smug sonovabitch over there's gonna rub it in muh face fer weeks if'n yuh knock me out."

The Kiowa slave looked at him through a tangle of long black hair. "Then you understand why I have to do this," he said, then ran at him. Jonah barely managed to sidestep out of the way and grab hold of the boy's wrist with both hands. Using the boy's own momentum against him, Jonah yanked back on his opponent's arm, letting go when he heard it dislocate from his shoulder. The boy howled in pain and went down in a heap, his arm twisted at an odd angle. His fellow Kiowa came forward, one of them trying to get the boy to his feet, but it was obvious that he was in no shape to continue. Many of the Indians cried foul because the fight had been so short, but Jonah didn't care, he was just worried that he'd done the other boy serious damage.

"You did well," Noh-Tante told Jonah with a note of reluctance in his voice, "though I would have preferred to see you go up against the other Kiowa."

Still angry over being forced to fight, he answered, "An' Ah would've preferred tuh pull _yer_ arm outta the socket instead."

A hand came up and slapped him across the mouth. Nothing serious to Jonah, his father had given him worse licks on a daily basis, but it was the look of superiority on the Apache's face when he did it that stung the most. "You had best watch your tongue. My father may think you're a good little slave, but I know better." He then gave the white boy a shove back towards their tipi, saying, "Go and prepare me some food, child, I grow hungry." The knot of Indians began to break up after that, with two of the Kiowa holding up the injured boy between them. The Kiowa brave walked alongside, yelling at him -- Jonah didn't know much of that tribe's language, but he knew enough to pick out one phrase that was said over and over: "Ke-Woh-No-Tay"...or in English, "He who is less than human" -- it appeared that they didn't even think of their white slave as a person.

Jonah shook his head before walking away. _Ah'm sorry, _he thought. _Ah know it don't help yer situation or muh own one damn bit, but Ah'm sorry.

* * *

_

The meeting came to an end the next day, and High Cloud and his party began the week-long journey back to their own camp. The chief traveled with a heavy heart, for the majority of his peers had decided more bloodshed was the answer, which would mean many more innocents would die, both red and white, and even less would be resolved between the two races. If there was a better answer, one that he could make the other chiefs listen to, High Cloud hadn't found it.

One night, while camped out in a low valley, High Cloud was unable to sleep soundly. He lay beneath his blankets and stared at the dwindling fire, wondering if his descendants would be fighting the same battle as him, or would this all be over someday, for good or ill. With a sigh, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the stars, then he heard someone speak his name. High Cloud turned his head and saw Jonah sitting up on his bedroll and looking at him -- the boy was a light sleeper, and had been listening to the chief's restless tossing and turning. "You seem troubled. Is something wrong?" Jonah asked in Apache, his Southern accent falling away as it always did when he spoke the chief's native tongue.

"Nothing that you can help with," he answered, "though I wish you could." He then got up, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and walked over to Jonah. The boy gazed up at him silently, his blue eyes giving no hint as to what thoughts lay behind them. "Get some sleep, we still have much traveling to do," High Cloud said, and turned away from him. There was a small lake near their campsite, and he settled down by the edge of the water to think.

Jonah laid back down, but he didn't sleep. Instead, he watched High Cloud as he sat hunched over by the water. Though he hadn't been present when the chief spoke with the other Indian leaders, he knew what most of the talk centered around: killing white folks. From High Cloud's attitude during the whole thing, he figured the man wasn't exactly for it, though after two years of living amongst them, Jonah understood what the other Indians were in a snit about. Hell, they only wanted to live and work the same way they had been for God knows how long, and not be pushed around by a bunch of lyin' paleface jackasses. Unfortunately, to the Indians, _he_ looked just like the lyin' paleface jackasses, so saying he understood their problems wouldn't mean a damn thing to them. He supposed that was the reason why the Kiowa treated that one white boy so badly: they'd gotten so fed up with the situation that they'd made him their own personal whipping-boy. Jonah counted himself lucky that High Cloud hadn't let the Apache do the same with him...though Noh-Tante came damn close some days. The way he'd been suckered into fighting still stuck in his craw, and Jonah wished he could get that skunk back for it, but a lowly slave goin' up against the chief's son? May as well put a gun to his own head and...

Out of the corner of his eye, Jonah caught movement on an outcropping of rock near the lake. Most of the valley gently sloped down towards their campsite, but there was an edifice of solid stone nearly twenty feet tall that jutted into the valley, creating a perfect overlook for anyone standing upon it. High Cloud's back was turned toward it, and he didn't notice anything amiss. Jonah, however, could see both him and the outcropping in profile, and as he stared up at the thin brush covering the topmost portion of the rock face, he spotted something crawling slowly towards the edge closest to the water...something large. "High Cloud," Jonah hissed, not wanting to alert whomever or whatever was up there, but unfortunately, he was too far away to be heard by the chief as well. Staying low to the ground himself, Jonah began to approach him, doing his best to get the man's attention. As he got closer, so did the unknown intruder, and Jonah soon realized it was a puma, at least as large as himself...and judging by how it was approaching the area above the chief, he also realized that it meant to pounce any second now! _Tuh Hell with bein' sneaky,_ he thought, and broke into a run, yelling in Apache, "High Cloud! Get away from there!"

The chief whipped his head around and stared at Jonah in confusion, then he heard something growl above him. He began to get to his feet just as the puma leapt down from its perch, but before the animal could reach him, Jonah dove at him and pushed him out of harm's way. Unfortunately, that left the boy in the path of 200 pounds of hungry mountain lion, which knocked him straight into the lake on impact. Undaunted by the change in the menu, the animal tried to sink its teeth into Jonah's neck as he fought to keep from drowning. In fact, the water had the boy in more of a panic than the puma: for as long as he could remember, he hated going in the water, and if he went into it deeper than waist-level, he'd get this crushing feeling in his chest like he couldn't breathe, so he avoided it whenever he could. Right now, however, that feeling was mostly caused by the big cat attempting to tear out his throat. With one hand wedged between himself and the puma to keep it at a distance, Jonah groped around the lakebed with the other in hopes that he could find something to use as a weapon. Luckily, he came across a good-sized rock and bashed the puma in the head with it, briefly stunning the animal. He then tried to scramble out of the water, but the puma recovered quickly and jumped onto his bare back, its claws tearing his exposed flesh to ribbons.

By now, Noh-Tante and the other Apache had been awakened by all the commotion, and stood at the water's edge with High Cloud. "We have to do something," one of the braves exclaimed, and began to step into the water.

Noh-Tante held him back, saying, "Why should you risk your life for him? Better his white blood spills than yours."

The brave hesitated, then withdrew a knife from his belt and tossed it in Jonah's direction, calling the boy's name as he did so. It landed not far from Jonah's outstretched hand, and he snatched it up, twisted around, and drove it into the puma's side. The big cat let out a screech as the boy plunged the knife in again and again, the water turning red from the blood pumping out of both of them. Moments later, the animal slumped down, and the boy soon followed. High Cloud himself entered the water and gathered Jonah up into his arms -- the boy was slipping into shock, but he somehow mustered the strength to ask the chief in English, "Yuh...are yuh okay?"

In answer, High Cloud let out a short laugh -- what manner of person was Jonah, that he could go through such a trial and _still_ be more concerned about someone else? "I'm fine, thanks to you," he said, then carried the boy back to camp, while two of the braves went into the water and dragged out the dead puma -- they would later skin the carcass and give the pelt to Jonah as a trophy after he'd recovered from his wounds.

After they returned to the rest of their tribe, word of Jonah's battle with the animal spread quickly, and many were impressed with the feat. Weeks later, when Jonah was mostly healed, the chief called his people together and declared that the boy would no longer be held as a slave -- his willingness to give his life to save those who oppressed him showed a spirit unlike any High Cloud had ever seen. "When he came to us, we saw only a white child, and judged him by the actions of his people," the chief said, "but we cannot be blind to his true heart anymore. He is a warrior, as fearless as any Apache, and the scars he bears are proof of that." He laid a hand on Jonah's shoulder. "From this day forward, the boy known as Jonah Hex is gone, and in his place will stand a young man named Mark of the Puma!"

A cheer went up amongst those gathered, and many of the braves came forward to welcome their new brother into their number. Jonah was overwhelmed by how openly the Apache accepted him as one of their own after years of slavery, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, he felt like he had a family again, one that loved him even more than his birth family.

Unseen by all present, however, was the icy glare of Noh-Tante.

* * *

_**1854:**_

The stream ran through a thick copse of trees, the leaves just beginning to turn their autumn palette. The midday sun sparkled on the water as a young buck made its way to the edge of the stream and paused to take a drink. All was silent save for the gentle rustling of foliage in the breeze, then suddenly, a low _thwip_ could be heard in the underbrush, and an arrow buried itself between the buck's shoulderblades. With a choked bleat, the animal turned to run, and another arrow struck it behind the ear, piercing the brain . Moments later, the buck collapsed, and Jonah stepped out from his hiding place, shouldering his bow as he did so. He'd been waiting there patiently for hours, biding his time until the quarry he desired came along. After pulling it away from the stream, he produced his knife and began to dress his kill, his face virtually without expression as always. It was one of the few things about him that hadn't changed since his days as a slave -- in the past year, he'd grown much, both in physical stature and ability. Many of his fellow Apache agreed that Mark of the Puma possessed a fine eye for the hunt, and his riding skills were without equal. In battle, he was fierce and swift, though High Cloud was hesitant to send him on raids where he may have to fight other whites, fearing Jonah's people might single him out as a traitor. The young man didn't share his chief's concerns, however, and was willing to defend his adopted family from all aggressors, red or white.

Once he'd finished his bloody task, Jonah loaded the kill onto his horse and returned to the encampment. More than a few young women smiled at him when he rode past, but he paid them no mind -- there was only one girl in camp that truly caught his attention, and it was to her that he steered his mount. "White Fawn!" he called out in Apache as he neared her. "I brought some more game to prepare."

"I was beginning to think you might come back empty-handed," she replied as he dismounted, "you were gone much longer than usual."

"The deer were not cooperating today." He flashed her a smile. "I tried to tell them about the beautiful girl waiting for me, but they would not listen."

White Fawn blushed a little, but only a little. From the first day they'd met, she'd been there for him as a friend, and after he'd been made a full member of the tribe, they had become even closer, their feelings growing stronger as they neared adulthood. They were always flirting with each other, teasing at how they felt...and for Jonah at least, it was becoming less of a tease and more of a serious thought. Some nights he would dream about White Fawn, about holding her in his arms and kissing her and...well, things he certainly wasn't comfortable talking to White Fawn about yet. Soon, perhaps, but not yet.

Jonah unloaded the bundle of venison and handed it to her. In return, she stepped close and gave him a peck on the cheek -- now it was his turn to blush. "I was thinking," she said, "that it would be nice to spend some time together tomorrow, just the two of us. You have been so busy lately, I have barely seen you."

"I have much to do," he started to say, then caught the hurt look in her eyes. "But I suppose the other men would not be too angry if I took just one day for myself," he finished.

Her expression brightened. "I look forward to tomorrow, then, Mark of the Puma," she said, then turned to take the venison over to the cooking fires. Jonah watched her go, wondering if he could ever work up the courage to express himself to her. It wasn't his way to talk about how he felt, or to even acknowledge that he ever felt _anything_ -- on the battlefield, he was daring and fearless, but when it came to his own heart, that was territory he had difficulty treading.

Leading his horse by the reins, he walked over to the tipi he shared with High Cloud and Noh-Tante -- since giving Jonah his freedom, the chief treated him like a second son, which Noh-Tante took surprisingly well. While they still sometimes had disagreements, the young Apache seemed to bear him no ill will, and Jonah decided to hold no grudge against him either, preferring to let the past remain in the past. _Whut's done is done_, as his Pa used to say. After hitching his mount to a post outside, Jonah entered the tipi and found the chief and his son deep in discussion. "The game in this area is just too thin," Noh-Tante was saying. "We have only been here two months, and already the hunts become longer each day, with little to show for it."

"I agree, but it seems too soon to move on," High Cloud answered. "If we go to our winter lodgings now, we may use up all the game there before spring comes...and if we do that, then the difficulties we face now will seem small." The chief turned to Jonah as he sat down beside him. "Mark of the Puma, do you agree with your brother? Should we move on early?"

The young man sat quietly for a few minutes. "The pickings are becoming scarce," he said finally, "but not so much that we are desperate yet. If we step up our hunting for a few days, stock up as much as we can before striking camp, it should help us from overusing our winter hunting grounds. Also, no one said we had to head straight for there from here. Perhaps we should make another camp in-between, until the cold weather gets closer."

"That is very wise," High Cloud said, and patted Jonah on the shoulder. "I trust I can count on you to oversee the extra hunting?"

"Of course...but..." He looked down sheepishly. "I was...I was hoping to spend tomorrow with White Fawn." Once again, he felt himself blush.

The chief laughed. "The day _after_ tomorrow for you, then," he said, then stood up. "In the meantime, I shall speak with some of the others, have them begin preparations." He exited the tipi, leaving the two young men alone.

"The old man is too set in his ways," Noh-Tante said as Jonah moved over to his bedroll.

"He is just thinking ahead, that is all. Nothing wrong with that." He laid down and stretched out, his muscles stiff from being out on the hunt all day. "There are times to act quickly, and times to consider options. I gave him options."

"And he listened to you," the Apache muttered, but Jonah didn't hear. Slightly louder, he said, "So, how long until you take White Fawn as your own?" Jonah turned his head toward him, an eyebrow raised, but said nothing. "Everyone knows you have your eye on her," Noh-Tante continued, "and she certainly does not seem to shy away from you..."

"None of yer goddam business," Jonah replied, lapsing back into English for a moment.

Noh-Tante ignored the comment. "Of course, it is ultimately up to her father, and I do not think you will succeed there. Brave warrior you may be, but you own little more than your horse and your rifle. He will not let a daughter as fine as White Fawn go to someone so poor, even if the chief does look favorably upon that person."

Jonah scowled, but he had to admit the young man was right: while he had counted coup on many raids over the past year, he hadn't accumulated much in the way of worldly possessions. Jonah just never saw a point in owning more than he could carry -- he had a fast horse, a strong bow, a fine rifle and knife, warm blankets for his bed...what more did he need?

He needed White Fawn, that's what. The thought that she might slip out of his grasp because of something so trivial wasn't something he wanted to contemplate. "Do you have a solution," Jonah asked, "or are you too busy running your mouth?"

"There is a Kiowa encampment not far from here...if we leave after dusk, we can still reach it long before the sun rises. Then we slip in, swipe some horses, and head back here. I will tell all that the raid was your idea, and hold no claim to the animals...they will be your property. It may not be enough at first, but it is a start." He smiled and spread his hands wide. "We will need more horses for when we relocate anyways, why not use the situation to your advantage?"

Jonah lay there for a while, mulling it over, and by the time High Cloud returned to the tipi, the young man had already agreed to Noh-Tante's plan.

* * *

Under a moonless night sky, Mark of the Puma and Noh-Tante peered over a ridge near the Kiowa camp. They'd traveled there on foot, armed only with knives so as not to be weighed down. Below them, they could see a few low-burning fires, as well as a couple of Indians moving about, though neither was discouraged -- they spied a group of four horses tethered at the far end of the encampment, with no one nearby. Silently, Noh-Tante indicated a path down to the area, and the two of them headed that way, staying low and sticking to the shadows. Once they neared the horses, they unsheathed their knives and began to cut the animals free. They had almost finished when Jonah saw a solitary Kiowa coming their way. Nothing about him indicated that they had been spotted, so he froze in place among the horses and waited for him to pass. Noh-Tante, however, crept away from their hiding place and, once the Kiowa's back was to them, threw an arm around the unsuspecting Indian's neck and drove a knife between his ribs.

"Whut the Hell are yuh _doin'?!?" _Jonah hissed in English, running up as the Kiowa slumped to the ground. "Yuh didn't have tuh kill him, he didn't even..." But his protest was quickly cut off when Noh-Tante backhanded him. Falling to the ground beside the dead Indian, Jonah barely had time to register what happened before the young Apache kicked him in the stomach, sending his breath whooshing out of his lungs. Noh-Tante bent down and punched him a couple more times in the face, then once the young man was sufficiently dazed, he slapped the bloody knife into Jonah's hand. "Whuh...whut are yuh..." he sputtered.

"Did you really think I would help you win White Fawn?" Noh-Tante spat. "_You?_ A lowly, white-skinned _dog?_ It sickens me that my own people think you're _better _than me...that _my own father_ respects _you_ more than his own flesh and blood." He wrapped a hand around Jonah's throat and pulled him close, fingernails digging into the soft flesh. "It was bad enough that he coddled you all those years, but when he turned around and declared you an _equal_...do you know how hard it's been to not slit your throat every night since then? I had to wait for the right moment, like a hunter stalking its prey. And now, 'brother', that time has come. My only regret is that I cannot witness what the Kiowa will do to your filthy white carcass." He spat in Jonah's face, slammed the young man's head onto the ground, then walked over to the horses and gathered up the reins. Climbing onto one of them, Noh-Tante reared his head back and let out an Apache war cry that echoed all through the encampment, then rode away with the other animals in tow.

_Gotta get up, _Jonah thought groggily, _them Kiowa is gonna come a-runnin' any second now._ But he couldn't do it, his legs felt like jelly. Dropping the knife, he rolled onto his stomach and tried to push himself up on all fours. He could hear footsteps rapidly coming his way, and he somehow managed to get to a standing position. He swayed in place, staring at the body laying before him, at the blood smeared on his own hands. _Run...run, yuh good-fer-nothin' sonovabitch! They ain't gonna listen tuh any half-assed excuses yuh give 'em! RUN!_

And he did run, stiffly at first, then increasing his speed as voices began to cry out. He recalled the white boy he'd met the year before, and how that band of Kiowa treated him -- Jonah doubted this was the same band, but he knew what that white slave endured would be nothing compared to the long, slow torture Jonah would probably receive for presumably killing one of their number. Frantic, he searched the dark plain for a hiding place, then remembered a creekbed surrounded by thick underbrush they'd passed on the way to the Kiowa camp -- if he could reach it, he might be able to hide there for the night.

Chest burning, legs aching, Jonah pushed himself ever faster, the sound of horse hooves slapping the ground joining the shouts behind him. At one point, he felt a sharp pain in his back and nearly fell, but he regained his footing and pressed on. Soon the creek was in view, and he slid down the bank. Hoping the Kiowa hadn't seen him dive for cover in the darkness, he huddled behind a tangle of bushes and dead leaves, doing his best to stay small and quiet. From his hiding spot, he saw some of the Indians follow the creek in either direction, and one even lingered a few feet away from him, but none spotted him. After what seemed like forever, the shouts faded away. When he was absolutely certain the coast was clear, Jonah began crawl out from the underbrush, but stopped when a wave of pain ripped through his back -- simply taking a breath made the pain worse. _Must've twisted something when Ah was runnin',_ he thought, and pressed a hand to his breastbone.

That was when he felt the head of an arrow protruding out of his chest, just scraping the bottom of his ribcage on his left side. Blood was streaked all the way down his torso, soaking his buckskin breeches. "Not good," he said aloud, and tried to stand. Exhausted, his head still spinning from the blows he'd received earlier, Jonah didn't even make it to his feet before passing out cold.

* * *

"Looks like the Injuns 'round here been makin' quite a ruckus." The driver of the supply wagon slowed a bit and waved a hand to the myriad tracks trampled into the earth around the creek. "You think we're gonna find some trouble when we get to the fort, Windy?"

Windy Taylor, riding shotgun beside the driver up on the buckboard, cocked his hat back on his graying head and peered at the ground. "Naw, these tracks look a mite old...from last night, probably, maybe early this morning. Reckon we missed all the fun." He gave a chuckle and settled back in his seat -- ol' Windy had an odd sense of humor. "I'll mention it to the commander when we get in, though," he said as they picked up the pace again, "they might want...hold on a minute, now." He hopped off the wagon before the driver could bring it to a full stop and began to make his way down to the water. "I think there's somebody down there."

"So? You collectin' dead Injuns or something?"

Instead of answering, Windy continued on towards what looked like a bloody arm sticking out of the shrubbery on the far bank of the creek. _Just hope it's still attached to somebody_, he thought, crossing over the water. As he neared it, he could see an equally-bloody torso through the foliage, as well as a few locks of red hair -- he'd heard stories about a redheaded Blackfoot warrior named Firehair, but they were a long way from Blackfoot territory. _'Course, that don't mean the fella ain't well-traveled...Hell, Windy, find out if'n the fella's dead first afore you worry 'bout who he is._ Pushing the shrubs aside, he saw a teenaged boy dressed in Indian garb caked with mud and dried blood, his face badly bruised and an arrow run straight through his middle. "Christ," he whispered, then yelled to the driver, "I got a dead body alright...but he's white!"

The driver swore himself. "You need help gettin' him outta there?"

"No, but fetch that blanket outta the back of the wagon so's we can wrap him up." Windy knelt down and slipped his arms beneath the cold body, but when he lifted up, he heard something quite unexpected: a shallow, reedy intake of breath. "Holy Hannah!" he exclaimed, then leaned close to make sure he hadn't been hearing things. Sure enough, after a few seconds, he saw the young man's lips move slightly, and another tortured breath came wheezing out of his lungs. Turning towards the driver again, Windy hollered, "Get that blanket down here on the double! This ornery bastard's _still alive!"_

Fort Hastings was a good eight miles away from the creek, but they made it there in record time, the driver whipping the horses 'til they were fit to drop, and Windy sitting in the back of the wagon, doing his best to keep the unconscious young man from bouncing around too much. Every once in a while, he'd put an ear to the boy's lips just to see if he was truly breathing -- it just didn't seem possible, especially if he was correct in assuming that the poor soul may have been laying out there all night. But he was breathing, albeit labored, and he was alive...though Windy had his doubts as to how long that would last. The doctor at the fort had the same opinion after examining the young man -- the arrow had torn up his insides pretty badly, not to mention the fact that he'd nearly bled dry. Despite how futile it seemed, they patched him up and put him in the infirmary, figuring they could at least make his last hours as comfortable as possible.

To everyone's surprise, the young man hung on for a week...then another week...then a month, but never fully regained consciousness. There were times when he'd begin talking, sometimes in English, other times in Apache, but it was never anything coherent, just the disjointed babble of a mind lost in a feverish haze. Whenever Windy was at the fort, he would stop by to see how the boy was coming along, and was constantly amazed to find him still hanging on -- in all his forty-five years on this Earth, more than half of them spent out West as a trapper and scout, Windy had never seen someone in such a state fight to live for so long. Then one day, he entered the infirmary and saw something even more amazing: the young man was sitting up in bed, talking to the fort commander. "Ah, speak of the Devil," the commander said when he spotted Windy in the doorway, and waved him over to the bedside. "Mr. Hex, this is Winfred Taylor...he's the one that found you and brought you in."

"Reckon Ah owe him muh life, then," Hex replied. His voice was weak, but the Texas drawl came through loud and clear. Sticking out his hand, he said, "Thank yuh kindly, Mr. Taylor."

"No thanks needed...an' call me Windy." He shook the hand that was offered. "I gotta say, for somebody so young, you sure are a tough little critter. How the Hell did you wind up in such a fix, anyhow?"

The look in Hex's eyes went cold. "Rather not talk 'bout thet right now," he said. "Not tuh seem ungrateful an' all, but Ah'd rather just get on a horse an' go on muh merry way."

"Not until the doc clears you," the commander answered, "I don't want you riding out of here too soon and passing out on the trail somewheres."

"Ah'll take the risk. Ah've already lost more'n a month, Ah cain't wait around fer..." He started to swing his legs out of bed, but stopped and clutched at the bandage around his chest, his teeth gritted. "Ah need...Ah need tuh..."

"You need to rest, Mr. Hex." The commander turned to Windy and said, "I've got other duties to attend to. Make sure he doesn't try anything stupid." He then left the two of them alone in the infirmary. Windy made the young man lie down again, but it wasn't easy.

"Y'all don't understand," Hex said, sweat breaking out on his forehead, "they might already be gone, Ah gotta catch up afore..."

"Catch up with who? Look, I want to help, but you've gotta tell me what's going on."

The young man fell quiet, closing his eyes. Windy was afraid he'd passed out again, then slowly, he began to tell the scout about White Fawn, and about Noh-Tante's betrayal. "They's probably already on their way tuh the winter camp," he told Windy, "or maybe someplace else along the line, dependin' on whut High Cloud decided. If'n Ah waste any more time, Ah'll never be able tuh find 'em."

"I understand, but you're in no shape to do that much ridin'." The man paused, then said, "If'n I give you a map, can you show me the trails they might take? I'll head on out an' see if'n I can locate them before they get too far away."

The relief was plain to see on the young man's face. He did as Windy asked, pointing out a few paths that the scout wasn't even aware of. Once that was done, Jonah said, "There should be a deerskin pouch attached tuh the belt Ah was wearin'...White Fawn made thet fer me. Y'all take it along, so's they know yo're tellin' the truth."

"I will...and I'll be back as soon as I can." He set out that afternoon, riding for days across the plains, searching high and low for any sign of the tribe's passing. But after two weeks and hundreds of miles, Windy realized that it was a futile effort: too much time had passed between the Apaches' departure from their last camp and the beginning of his search. When he finally returned to Fort Hastings and told Jonah the bad news, the young man was no longer bedridden, and Windy thought for sure that he'd jump on the nearest horse and ride out of there like the Devil was after him. Instead, Jonah quietly took back the pouch and reattached it to the back of his belt. "I'm sorry, son," Windy told him, meaning every word. "I did everything I could, but..."

"It's alright, ain't yer fault." He barely knew the young man, but Windy could still hear the pain in Jonah's voice when he said the words, though none of it showed on his face. "Whut's done is done."

* * *

_**1855:**_

_Click...BAM! "_Dammit." _Click...BAM!_ "Dammit!" _Click...BAM! _"Dammit tuh Hell!"

"Boy, you hold onto that gun any tighter, you'll choke it to death." Windy walked over to the row of targets -- three old glass canning jars lined up on a sawed-down tree stump -- and checked out where the bullets had ended up. Two were embedded in the stump, and the third had gone completely wild and disappeared. "Well, the good news is you're gettin' closer. Bad news is it ain't close enough."

Jonah shook his head, his long red hair brushing against his shoulders -- though his clothes were now the same as any typical white man's, he refused to cut his hair to a more respectable length. "Ah'm doin' muh best. Ah swear, 'tween the time Ah aim an' the time Ah pull the trigger, they jump outta the way." He cracked open the cylinder on the Colt Navy he was firing and began to reload it, saying, "Why cain't Ah just stick with rifles? Ah'm a dead shot with them."

"Cause if'n you're gonna ride with me, you're gonna have to be prepared for anything," he answered, his breath turning to little white puffs in the cold January air, "an' there may come a time when you're in a tight spot an' you ain't _got_ no rifle with you. So you're gonna practice with them blasted irons 'til y'all can do it in your sleep!"

The young man sighed and continued reloading, fitting on fresh percussion caps to ignite the powder in the chambers. When Windy took him on as a partner last autumn, the man was quickly impressed with the skills Jonah already possessed at such a young age -- his years with the Apache had made him knowledgeable in many of the things a frontiersman needed to survive. But when Jonah admitted that he'd used a handgun only once in his life, and nearly six years ago at that, Windy decided that a little more education was in order. So as the first snows began to fall, the two of them headed for Windy's little plot of land further up north, where the man's wife and son lived. Jonah was surprised to learn that Windy hadn't been home to see either of them in over a year, but he supposed that the life of an Army scout kept the man too busy to stop by more often than that. To be sure, the odd arrangement made Windy's son Tod seem distant from his father, but considering the sort of home life Jonah had growing up, he decided things could be worse in the Taylor household. Personally, Hex felt a bit awkward during their stay, having spent such a long time away from "civilized" life -- he remembered what it was like, but the quality of the memories was so poor that returning to that sort of environment made him uncomfortable, and he was anxious to head back to the trails and open spaces to which he'd grown accustomed. Windy quickly picked up on this, and after the holidays passed, he stepped up his efforts to teach Jonah the fundamentals of handling a sixgun.

Having finished reloading, Hex took aim once again, holding the pistol in a two-fisted grip. "Hold on, son," Windy said before the young man could even begin shooting, "let's try something else." He came up beside his student and took the gun from him, then turned Jonah sideways and put the gun into his right hand, pointing directly at the targets. "I want you to try it one-handed. Just pretend..."

"Thet's muh dumb hand," Jonah interrupted.

"Well, it's time for the dumb hand to get a mite smarter." He stood behind the young man, sighting down the length of his extended arm. "When you fire a rifle, you brace the stock against your shoulder, but you ain't got no stock on a sixgun." He braced his own hands on Hex's arm and said, "_This_ is your stock...don't even think of it as bein' separate from the gun. As soon as that pistol drops into your hand, it's a _part_ of you. You point your arm, not the gun...pretend them irons don't even exist 'til y'all pull the trigger. Got that?"

"Yeah, sure." In all honesty, Jonah thought what Windy was saying was pure hogwash, but he was so frustrated with his lack of progress so far, he was willing to try anything. _Point muh arm_, he thought, _not the gun. _Amazingly, as he lined up one of the jars, Jonah could swear that for a moment, there _was_ no gun, only himself and his desire to destroy the object before him. He'd felt the sensation in the past, while on the hunt with bow or rifle at the ready, or in the heat of battle as the enemy came into view -- a moment when the weapon is forgotten, when all that remains is hand and eye and target and...

"Pa! Hey, Pa! I wanna try, too!"

The child's shouts broke the spell, and Jonah's finger twitched on he trigger, sending the bullet flying. Once again, it was a clean miss, and he swore to high Heaven about it. He turned and glared at Tod, who was running at them from the house, his mother at the door yelling for him to come back.

"Dammit, Bess, I told you to keep him inside 'til we're done!" Windy hollered at his wife. "All's it takes is one stray shot to..."

"I tried," Bess answered, "but he snuck by me before I realized it."

The boy looked up at his father, saying, "I wanna learn to shoot, too, Pa! You said you'd teach me."

"An' I will, but you ain't even turned eight yet. Soon's you're older, I'll..."

"I'm _nine! _You forgot _again!"_ The boy pouted out his lip. "I don't wanna wait, I wanna learn _now!"_ Tod tried to grab the pistol out of Jonah's hand, but he wisely held it out of reach.

Windy took hold of the boy's arm and pulled him away, saying, "Stop that, dammit! I ain't gonna teach you nothin' if'n you keep doin' fool things like that!" Tod fought against him, and his father slapped him across the face. "You'd best learn to listen, boy, or else..." Windy made to slap him again, but before he could, Jonah grabbed the man's wrist with his free left hand.

"Once is enough," the young man said, a cold, hard look in his eyes.

"You don't know nothin' 'bout raisin' kids, Hex," Windy told him, "you gotta be firm with 'em. Hell, you're still a kid yourself."

"Once is enough," he repeated, and looked down at Tod. "Yuh learned yer lesson, right?" The boy nodded, and Hex returned the gesture. "Alright then, y'all stay in the house a bit longer, an' yer pa will let yuh have a go at it later." Tod hesitated, looking from Jonah to his father, then turned around and walked back to the house, his mother ushering him back inside. Still holding Windy by the wrist, Jonah said to him, "Ah don't ever want tuh see yuh hit him again."

"What's your damn problem? He's my boy, an' if'n I think he needs to be disciplined..."

Jonah glared at him coldly for a moment longer, then turned his anger-filled gaze on the targets. With barely a thought, the gun in his right hand came up and sounded out three times. The first bullet sank into the stump, the second clipped the rim of the centermost jar, and the third hit the jar on the right dead-on, glass exploding everywhere.

Windy gulped, then said, "Better...that's a lot better, son."

* * *

By springtime, Jonah's skill with a handgun was up to Windy's satisfaction, though the older scout was still just a shade better than his pupil. It was plain to anyone who saw the young man handle his weapon, however, that the gap was closing fast. When the two of them returned to the more southern territories and resumed their work as trackers and guides at the various posts across the frontier, Jonah quickly gained a reputation as one of the best...and considering he was nearly half the age of many of his colleagues, the reputation became that much harder to live up to. Some of the other scouts resented this young pup who just appeared out of nowhere, and despite having an established tracker like Windy Taylor backing him up, Hex sometimes found himself duking it out with grizzled old mountain men that thought he was nothing but hot air. Lucky for him, it usually didn't take more than cracking a few ribs or, in a couple extreme cases, a nimble swipe of his Bowie knife to convince the naysayers that he was up to snuff.

All in all, it was a good life, but deep in his heart, Jonah knew something was missing. Windy knew as well, though he pretended not to notice that, whenever they passed near an Indian encampment or ran across a native guide at a fort or trading post, the young man would take a moment to speak privately with them. And each time, whomever he spoke with would shake their head, and Jonah would walk away, his head hanging a little lower, his fingers idly brushing over the deerskin pouch that lay against his right hip.

* * *

_**1858:**_

The door to the barracks banged open, and Private Hays stuck his head inside. "Everybody fall in! The new commander's a-ridin' up!" he said, then popped back out to continue passing the message along to all those residing in the fort.

"Hell, I don't see what the big fuss is about," Rod Webster muttered, not moving from his bunk, "they probably sent us another no-account saber-rattler that Washington wants to lose out here in the middle of nowhere."

Walt Barstow nodded in agreement. "'Sides that, we ain't enlisted men anyhow...why we gotta line up?"

"Cause the U.S. Army is payin' your room an' board." Windy hitched up his galluses, then grabbed his cowhide jacket as he headed for the door. "Y'all may be big-shot scouts when we's out on the trail, but when you're within these walls, the cavalry calls the tune, so get off your ass an' start dancin'." He stepped outside, leaving his fellow trackers to make themselves as presentable as trail-blasted hardcases like them could get, and walked across the compound to the open area before the front gate. Hex was already there amongst the soldiers, which the older man was glad to see -- unlike the other scouts, Jonah understood well that whomever was paying for his services was the one in charge, and if he was taking their money, he'd damn well better deliver what they asked for.

"So, whut yuh think, Windy?" Hex asked as his mentor fell into line beside him. "Reckon maybe we drew a commander whut ain't got all his frontier knowledge outta _Harper's Monthly_?"

"You want a sucker bet, talk to Croy," he replied. "Let's give this fella a few weeks afore we decide how useless he is." As he said this, the rest of the scouts came up, taking their places just as the soldiers at the gate made ready to open it for the incoming party. At the signal from a sentry in the watchtower, they threw the wooden gate wide, allowing passage for a white-haired colonel and a few mounted cavalrymen, along with a covered Conestoga wagon trundling along in the center of the group.

Major Franklin, who was currently in charge of the fort, called the assembled men to attention, then stepped forward and snapped off a brisk salute to the new C.O. "Sir! Welcome to Fort Andrews, Colonel Wainwright. All the men are present and accounted for, and awaiting your inspection."

"At ease, Major...and that goes for the rest of you, as well. I'll get around to shaking you boys down soon enough." The colonel dismounted and walked over to the wagon, offering a hand to a bonneted young lady sitting next to the driver.

Ernest Daniels, standing in line with the other scouts, whispered, "Who do you suppose that is? His wife?"

"Awful young for a wife," Webster said.

Another scout, Farrell Kincaid, added, "That don't stop most fellas...I know it wouldn't stop me." White Claw, a Shoshone who was close friends with Kincaid, stifled a laugh.

Hex ignored the chatter and watched as the colonel introduced the lady to the major. Unfortunately, the conversation was too low for him to make out. The three of them then began to make their way down the line, Wainwright occasionally stopping to comment about one of the soldiers. The closer they came to Jonah, the more he couldn't help but stare at the young lady. She looked to be about the same age as himself, with shining blue eyes and soft curls of blond hair peeking out from beneath her bonnet. When he caught his gaze lingering along the curve of her body beneath her calico dress, he suddenly looked down at the ground, embarrassed -- he didn't feel it was right to ogle another man's wife, no matter how pretty she was.

"And here we have our current compliment of scouts," Major Franklin said as the group approached Hex and the others, "probably the finest team we've ever had."

"They all look well-seasoned," the colonel replied, then stopped in front of Jonah and gave him a once-over. "You there...how long have you been out on the trails?"

Jonah lifted his head, but he was still so flustered from seeing the girl, he couldn't put together a decent response. Lucky for him, Windy chimed in with, "Hex here may be young, but he's got more experience under his belt than most scouts you may've run into."

Wainwright cocked an eyebrow. "Are you his father?"

"Me? Oh, no sir...but I couldn't be more proud of him if'n I was."

"Mr. Taylor and Mr. Hex here have been with us for going on five months now," Franklin interjected. "They're kind of a package deal."

"I see...well, I trust your judgment that the Army got their money's worth with these two, Major," the colonel said, then looked over the men one last time and nodded. "Everything appears to be in order. I look forward to seeing these boys in action." Pointing to some of the soldiers in line, he said, "You two men...I want you to start unloading the baggage from the wagon and moving it to my quarters -- my daughter will tell you what's what with that. The rest of you men can fall out and return to your duties, the major and I will be in the main office."

_Daughter?_ The thought barely had time to form in Jonah's head before the grounds became a tangle of soldiers once again, going about the tasks that kept Fort Andrews running smoothly on a daily basis. The other scouts returned to their business as well, leaving Jonah and Windy on their own. "You all right, son?" the older man asked. "I know you ain't much of a talker, but the way you acted in front of the colonel...Hell, I thought you was gonna faint."

"Ah'm fine, it's just..." He paused, looking across the grounds at the girl standing by the wagon as the two soldiers unloaded it. "Did he say thet's his daughter?"

Windy followed his gaze, then let out a laugh and clapped him on the back. "Lordy, Jonah boy, you sure can pick 'em! Ain't no way you're gonna be able to get a colonel's daughter."

"Ah never said nothin' bout gettin' her," he replied, going on the defensive, "Ah'm just makin' sure Ah heard the man right. It's important tuh know things like thet."

"Sure thing, son. Just make sure the colonel don't catch you knowin'." He clapped Jonah on the back again, then turned to walk back to the barracks, leaving the young man to himself as he watched the girl from afar.

* * *

Her name was Cassandra, though most folks called her Cassie. That was the first thing Jonah found out about her in the weeks that followed. Her mother had died six years before, and she'd accompanied her father as he moved from one assignment to the next ever since. She seemed well-suited to Army life, and didn't fuss against stodgy military procedure like Jonah had seen other women do. He also noted that her presence affected more than just Hex: all the men appeared to be a bit more self-conscious when she walked into a room, standing a little straighter and watching their tongues so as not to cuss. He didn't know what it was about Cassie, but he couldn't stop thinking about her -- it wasn't the first time he'd found himself daydreaming about a girl since losing White Fawn, though Cassie was certainly the first to hold his attention so completely that he had a hard time focusing on anything else. He'd remind himself that the colonel would probably boot him right out of the fort -- or worse -- if he tried anything, but the thoughts still surfaced. Jonah eventually decided that _thinking_ about her wasn't bad, so long as he didn't _act_ on it.

That idea seemed to work well, until about a month after the Wainwrights arrived at the fort. Hex was in the stables brushing down his horse when he heard someone nearby clear their throat. He turned and saw the young lady standing outside the stall. "Cass...um, Ah mean...hello, Miss Wainwright," he said, fumbling with his hat as he spoke, "kin Ah help yuh with something?"

"Can you go on a ride with me?" The moment she said it, Jonah felt himself turn redder than his hair. "I don't think I can stand another day cooped up in this place," she continued, oblivious to his distress, "but Father insists that it's too dangerous to go out riding alone."

It took a moment for him to recover his voice, finally saying, "Yer father's right, ma'am. We's right up against Comanche territory out here, an' yo're...well, yo're just a little slip of a thing..."

"I'm eighteen, Mr. Hex, and quite capable of handling myself. Father's just being overprotective, that's all." She stepped into the stall proper. "But he can't object if one of his scouts accompanies me. So, is it possible that you could..."

He tried to say no, tried with all his might, but his heart sent a different message to his mouth before his brain could override it. "Sure...j-just let me saddle up a horse fer yuh."

Jonah picked out a mare with a gentle temperament, and after readying his own horse, the two of them rode out the main gate, more than a few soldiers watching them as they went. He did his best to not look guilty, though he certainly felt so. Here he was, riding alongside the colonel's daughter all by his lonesome, staring at the bit of leg showing on her as she rode sidesaddle instead of keeping an eye out for trouble. _Yo're a real skunk, Jonah boy,_ he said to himself. _This gal asks a favor of yuh, an' y'all cain't quit gawkin' fer five goddam seconds. _He tried to keep his mind on the task at hand as they rode further away from the fort, the grassy plain sloping down towards a wooded grove.

"The countryside out here certainly is beautiful, don't you think, Mr. Hex?" Cassie said after a while. "The land just seems to go on forever."

"Huh?" Jonah snapped to attention at the sound of her voice. "Oh...yes'm, it's real nice. Frankly, Ah don't see how some folks kin stand bein' all closed up in them big towns like Ah hear they have back east."

"You've never been east, Mr. Hex?"

"No ma'am, Ah'm a Texas boy, born an' bred...ain't never even been close enough tuh the Mississippi tuh spit in it." He immediately regretted saying such a vulgar thing in front of her, but when she began to laugh, it put him at ease. "Ah take it yuh is an Easterner, ma'am?"

She nodded, saying, "My family comes from Virginia, though it's been quite a few years since I've seen it. The Army has been moving Father around so much lately..."

"Yuh miss it?"

"Sometimes. Mostly I miss Jeb."

Jonah's heart sank. "Oh...Ah'm sorry, Ah didn't know yuh had a sweetheart back home."

"No, Jeb's my cousin," Cassie explained, laughing again. "We grew up together, but after Mother died, I began to see him less and less. We still keep in touch through the post, though."

"Good," he said a bit too quickly, then eased off. "Ah mean it's good thet y'all write an' such." Hex tried to recall the last time he'd seen his own cousins -- before Pa dumped him with the Apache, to be sure, but beyond that, he couldn't remember.

They fell silent for a while as their path took them under the trees, Cassie turning her face up towards the dappled sunlight, admiring the woodland and listening to birdsong. Once again, Jonah found himself focusing more on her than the land around them. Her head was uncovered today, and her blonde hair seemed to shine in the sun. He wondered if she had any clue about the sort of effect she had on him. _Probably wouldn't give a fella like me a second thought...a gal like her's more'n likely had all sorts of officers an' such tryin' tuh spark up with her._ Jonah shook his head slightly to clear it, and fixed his eyes on the trail. _Just quit it, boy, an' do yer job._

Soon after, the path opened up on a small spring, and they dismounted so the horses could rest and take a drink. "My goodness," Cassie breathed, "this place looks so...unspoiled, like no one's ever been here before."

"Ah'm sure thet ain't true, Miss Wainwright. Like Ah said afore, this here's Comanche territory." Jonah turned his back to her and hunkered down, inspecting one of the horse's hooves -- the shoe appeared to be loosening, and he made a mental note to fix that once they got back. "Ah'm sure if'n yuh look close enough," he continued, "yuh'll see signs of 'em passin' on through here. Best stay close by, just in case they's out an' about." He then got an odd feeling crawling up the back of his neck. He turned around, and Cassie was nowhere in sight. _Oh Lord,_ he thought, then called out, "Miss Wainwright?" but there was no answer. Jonah dashed over to where he last saw her standing, and found the faint depressions of her low-heeled boots in the earth at the water's edge -- they led off into the wood, away from the path they'd rode in on. _Don't panic, Jonah, yuh only looked away fer a moment. She couldn't have gotten far._ He headed in the direction of the footprints, looking for bent grass and other indicators that he was on the right track. Lucky for him, Cassie had made no attempt to hide her passing, and he soon found her standing beside a tree, looking out on another opening in the woodland...where a group of four Comanche warriors had gathered, all of them armed.

The young man froze. The Comanche didn't appear to have noticed her yet, thank God, but if they did...Jonah's mind suddenly fled back to that meeting of chiefs five years before, and how the Comanche leaders present had lobbied hardest for vengeance against the whites. Having fought both with and against Indians, he knew very well what could possibly happen. Taking great care, he crept up behind Cassie, and when she was within reach, he grabbed her from behind and clamped a hand over her mouth. She tried to scream, and he held her even tighter, whispering in her ear, "Back up slowly, little girl, or else we's in a world of trouble." Jonah then began to walk backward, the young lady pressed close to him as he did so, and his eyes glued on the braves in the clearing. So far, the Comanche hadn't even looked in their direction -- judging from what Jonah could make out of their conversation, they appeared to be tracking a wounded deer they'd shot at. _Just so long as it didn't run off the way we came, Ah reckon we'll be alright,_ he thought. Then his boot caught on a fallen tree branch, giving way with a dry snap.

From behind Hex's hand, a small squeak escaped Cassie's mouth as one of the Indians turned their way. "Pick up yer feet," Jonah whispered to her and, not giving a damn about decorum, wrapped his other arm around her belly to lift her up. Still stepping backwards, he quickly carried her behind a stout tree and shoved her down onto the ground, then got on top of her, hoping that his dark buckskin coat would disguise them amongst the dead leaves and other detritus on the forest floor. He looked directly into Cassie's frightened eyes and mouthed, "Be still," then as slowly as he could, he reached down and unholstered one of his Colts, holding it close to his body to hide the glint of metal.

Jonah could hear the Comanches entering the wood, their moccasin-clad feet barely disturbing the ground cover. They spoke in low voices, unaware that what they searched for could understand every word. Thumb resting on the hammer of his gun, Hex waited for one to come into view, praying to God that he wouldn't have to kill anyone today, not with this poor girl laying here beneath him. He saw a dark-haired head begin to peek around the tree trunk, pausing to listen, his rifle held before him. While Cassie couldn't see what Jonah saw from her position, she could feel the young man's body tense, his eyes growing cold and dark.

Then a voice called out in Comanche from the other end of the wood: the quarry had been spotted, and was floundering as it tried to escape the hunters. The brave backed away from their hiding place, joining his companions in pursuit of the deer. Jonah remained in position until he was sure the Indians were well out of earshot, then holstered his iron and rolled off of her. "Forgive me, Miss Wainwright," he said, "but if'n they'd spotted us..."

Cassie said nothing, simply reached out with trembling hands and took hold of his shirt and pulled herself close. Soon, her whole body was shaking as she sobbed against his chest. Jonah didn't move, unsure of just what to do at first, then folded his arms around her, holding her much more gently than he'd done just moments before. "It's alright, little girl, they're gone," he told her. "Ah swear, Ah never would've let 'em hurt yuh."

"Oh God, I was suh...s-so scared. When I saw them, I didn't...I didn't know if I..."

"Yuh did fine. Yuh stayed quiet, an' yuh listened good tuh me. If'n Ah hadn't misstepped, we would've gotten away clean." He stroked her hair, brushing away bits of leaves stuck to the back of her head. Then, before he even realized he was doing it, he pushed aside the locks of hair hanging over her forehead and kissed her there. Cassie's breath hitched as the tears slowed down, and Jonah tilted her face up towards his and kissed away the few that remained on her cheeks. In the back of his mind, a voice told him to stop, he shouldn't do this, but he ignored it, heeding instead the heat growing in his chest and belly, the fire he'd been trying in vain to snuff ever since he first laid eyes on Cassie.

She looked upon him, blue eyes framed by a smooth creamy complexion, soft pink lips forming his name: "Hex..."

"Jonah," he replied, "call me Jonah."

A smile, so demure but speaking volumes. "Only if you call me Cassie."

"Yes'm." A smile of his own, feeling unfamiliar on his face -- he hadn't smiled at any girl like that since White Fawn. But she was gone, lost somewhere out on the frontier, and Cassie was before him, laying back beneath the tree, pulling him down with her. He pressed his mouth over hers, kissing long and deep, not caring about the consequences anymore, just focusing on that one perfect moment, and the perfect woman he was sharing it with.

When they returned to Fort Andrews an hour later, none of the men outwardly suspected anything was amiss, but many noticed the odd smile that refused to leave Jonah's lips for the rest of the day.


	4. Part 3: Life During Wartime

**PART 3: LIFE DURING WARTIME**

_**1859:**_

Jonah and Cassie managed to keep their little affair a secret for over three months before anyone found out. In that short period of time, the young couple had made the most of every moment spent together, be it a quick kiss when no one was looking or a late-night rendezvous full of passion and heated embraces. Both of them were aware that, if Colonel Wainwright discovered what they were up to, the consequences could be dire, but their need for each other ran too deep for them to consider putting an end to the relationship. So they tried their best to be cautious and quiet, but it was only a matter of time before her father got wind of the situation -- Marcus Wainwright was no fool, and he certainly wouldn't take kindly to being played for one.

Things finally came to a head one cold January night as Jonah snuck across the compound to one of the supply rooms -- he'd asked Cassie to meet him there at midnight, saying only that he had a surprise for her. As it turned out, he was the one who got the surprise, for it was the colonel he found standing in the dim lamplight once he stepped through the door. "Whut the Hell..." Jonah started to say, then snapped to attention as fast as he could. "Sir!"

"I think you had it right the first time," he answered, and walked abruptly up to the scout, anger in his eyes. "What the Hell do you think you're doing with my daughter? I caught her slipping out of her room a half-hour ago, and when I pressed her about it, she confessed to the whole thing." He leaned in close. "I won't have you treating her like some common tramp you can tease along and then abandon when you get bored."

Had the colonel been any other man, Hex would have punched him in the mouth for talking to him like that. But he wasn't any other man, he was the father of the woman he loved, so Jonah held his temper in check as best he could. "Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but Cassie's old enough tuh make her own decisions 'bout who she sees an' who she don't," he said evenly, "an' Ah'd sooner die muhself than do anything tuh hurt her."

Wainwright scoffed. "Do you think you're the first man to tell me such? I swear, there's a dozen just like you at every fort I've ever passed through, all drooling at the sight of fresh game."

"Sir, yuh got this all wrong..."

"No, _you're_ the one who's wrong here!" Spittle flew out from under his bristly white moustache as he yelled. "This is _my daughter_ we're talking about here, dammit! If you were regular Army, I'd throw you in the stockade..." He grabbed the front of Jonah's shirt and began shaking him, then abruptly stopped when something fell out of the young man's coat. "What is that?" he asked, but didn't bother to wait for an answer. The colonel bent down and picked up a tiny box tied with ribbon. "Trying to buy her affections with cheap trinkets?"

"Please, sir, if'n yuh just..." But it was no use, the man wasn't interested in whatever explanation Hex offered, and he could only stand there as Wainwright untied the ribbon and opened the box. After doing so, the colonel stared mutely at him, then back at the contents of the box. "Are yuh willin' tuh listen now?" Jonah ventured.

"You can't be serious," he answered, still looking at the box.

"Ain't never been more serious in muh life." He gently took the box from the colonel, saying, "When Ah was a mite younger, Ah loved another girl, but Ah never really got the chance tuh tell her how Ah felt. Reckon Ah figured there was time enough fer thet later...but by the time later came 'round, she was gone. Thet hurt, an' it still does, but the love Ah feel fer Cassie...thet makes it hurt a mite less." Jonah upended the contents of the box into his palm: two plain gold rings, one slightly larger than the other. "Ah ain't about tuh make the same mistake twice, sir."

Wainwright regarded Hex for a moment, peering deep into his eyes for any hint of deceit. Since coming to Fort Andrews, he'd found Jonah Hex to be quite a capable scout, but somewhat of a cipher in his off-hours -- he rarely spoke, and socialized even less -- rather odd behavior for such a young man. But now, as he talked about Cassie, something came to light in Jonah's eyes that said more than any words could. Either he was an incredible actor, or he was genuinely, deeply in love with the girl...perhaps even more than her own father loved her. "You know," the colonel said, "it's customary to speak with a lady's father before asking for her hand in marriage."

"Ah know thet, sir," he said, the look in his eyes never faltering, "but Ah...well, frankly, sir, Ah wanted tuh be sure she'd say 'Yes' afore Ah stuck muh head in thet particular noose."

The older man struggled to hide his smile. "I'd say you must have been pretty sure of the answer beforehand -- those rings probably cost you at least a month's salary."

"Give or take." Now his gaze finally moved away, focusing on the floor. "Sir, if'n yuh don't mind...is there any way we could continue this here conversation in yer office? Preferably with a fire goin'? This storeroom ain't exactly the warmest place in the middle of the night."

"Don't complain to me, young man, you're the one that chose this location." He then gestured to the door, and the two of them filed out into the chill evening air.

* * *

It took Wainwright a few days to adjust to the idea, but after a lengthy talk with both Hex and Cassie -- on separate occasions, so as to get an unclouded view of their feelings -- he realized that what they had together truly went beyond youthful lust, and that keeping them apart would be nearly impossible. So he consented to their relationship, under one condition: that Jonah make her an honest woman as soon as possible. Neither of them objected to that in the slightest way, and immediately began to make plans for the wedding, starting with Cassie writing to her cousin Jeb in Virginia -- she insisted on being married in her mother's bridal dress, and wanted her family back home to send it to her. Such things didn't matter one bit to Jonah, he was just happy that he didn't have to hide his affections anymore.

Spring drew near, and the two of them were acting as husband and wife in all but name. Jonah slept very little in the scouts' barracks, spending his nights in the company of his beloved instead, usually all the way up 'til morning reveille. The colonel wasn't too pleased with that, but Jonah couldn't help himself -- after so many years of heartache, he couldn't get over the fact that he had a girl as wonderful as Cassie, and he never wanted to leave her side.

Early one morning, he awoke in her bed to find her already up and dressed for the day. "Whut's all this about, sugar?" he asked with a yawn. "Sun ain't even all the way up yet."

"Captain Shelly's heading into Portersville to collect the payroll." She primped her hair in the mirror. "I asked him yesterday if I could come along to see if my dress arrived yet."

Jonah rolled his eyes -- it had been nearly two months since Cassie wrote the letter. "Tuh Hell with thet dress already," he said and hopped out of bed himself, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist -- they made an odd pairing, he in his longjohns and she with her petticoats. "Ah say yuh forget all thet fuss an' head on down the aisle naked, whut yuh think 'bout thet?"

She gasped, her eyes fixed on their mutual reflection in the mirror, but she was smiling. "You're awful!" she told him.

"Next thing yuh know, yo're gonna tell me Ah'll have tuh take a bath aforehand, too," he continued. "Bad enough yuh talked me into cuttin' muh hair..."

"You look good with short hair." To emphasize, Cassie reached up and ran her fingers through his newly-shorn locks, now just long enough to cover the back of his neck.

Jonah gazed upon his image in the glass and mused, "Maybe Ah do...or maybe yo're just tryin' tuh civilize me." He turned her around to face him, smiling himself now. "Yuh wouldn't go an' do a durn fool thing like thet tuh me, would yuh, little girl?"

"Never." She gave him a kiss, and he did her one better by picking her up and giving her a whirl around the room. "Stop it!" she squealed. "They're going to leave without me!"

Jonah did as she asked and let her finish getting ready, but not before getting another kiss out of her. He got dressed himself, and accompanied Cassie as she went to meet the captain, who was already saddled up and ready to go along with three other soldiers. Two of Hex's fellow scouts, Croy and Barstow, were waiting on horseback as well, and Daniels was in the driver's seat of the supply wagon, reins in hand. "M-Miss Wainwright...I didn't know you was taggin' along today," the man stuttered as Jonah helped her onto the wagon.

"You don't mind a little company, do you?" she asked Daniels, smoothing out her skirt.

"No...no ma'am, I don't, but..." His eyes darted over to Croy and Barstow.

"Yuh just keep in mind thet it's only _temporary_ company," Jonah added, "an' thet Ah expect y'all tuh remember who put thet there ring on her finger." He then turned to Cassie and said in a much gentler voice, "Yuh be careful now, sugar. If'n there's any trouble, yuh listen close tuh whutever these boys tell yuh."

"You know I will, Jonah. Do you want me to check with the postmaster and see if Windy sent you another letter yet?"

"Thet'd be fine." His mentor Windy Taylor had left Fort Andrews a few weeks before Christmas -- he'd received word that his wife Bess had become gravely ill, and had taken off for home almost immediately. From the notes Windy had sent Hex so far, it looked like he wouldn't be returning to the fort any time soon. A couple years ago, Jonah would have shown more concern over that, but now that Cassie was in his life, the majority of his thoughts were on her.

Colonel Wainwright stood beside Captain Shelly's mount, saying, "Make sure you don't dawdle too long in town. These men have been waiting over three months for their wages, and are mighty eager to finally get some coin back in their pockets." Delays in payroll were common in the military, with some soldiers waiting as long as half-a-year for their measly pay.

Shelly nodded, then called out, "All right, men, let's get underway before the whole day's gone." He took the lead in line, the others stationing themselves around the wagon -- Jonah barely had time to steal one last kiss from Cassie before Daniels lurched their ride into motion. Hex took off his hat and used it to wave farewell to his sweetheart as she passed through the gates, though the dust kicked up by the wagon mostly obscured him from her view.

"Well now," the colonel said, sidling up beside him, "with luck, the two of you will be Mister and Missus quite soon." He laid a hand Hex's shoulder. "In which case, I believe you and I should have a bit of a talk, man to man."

"Sir?" Jonah stiffened inside -- he thought Wainwright was all talked out on the matter.

"At ease, son, I'm not going to court-martial you." He began to steer Jonah towards his office. "Tell me: have you ever had genuine Kentucky bourbon?"

* * *

Portersville was a good twenty miles away from Fort Andrews, with not even a rutted trail laying between the two. It was nearly midday by the time their little convoy pulled up near the lone bank in town, Captain Shelly and two of the soldiers heading inside to take possession of the Army strongbox secured in their safe. The third soldier and Daniels went off to pick up a few supplies, and Cassie headed for the postmaster's office, leaving Croy and Barstow to watch the horses and wagon. That's not to say the two of them didn't have their own business to attend to, it was just that they didn't want anyone else aware of it yet.

"Why'd that damn calico pick today of all days to ride in with us?" Barstow growled to his fellow tracker. "This throws the whole thing out of whack!"

"Simmer down, Walt. It ain't like the whole damn company tagged along." Croy looked about from the corner of his eye, making sure no one was lurking nearby. "We go through it same as we planned. Reckon we'll just have to drag her along for a bit, then dump her somewheres."

"An' leave a witness? Are you mad?"

"When we ain't among the bodies, they'll figure it out soon enough anyhow." He flashed a wolfish grin. "Besides, maybe we can make a little extra off'n her."

"What? Now you want to move into ransom?" Barstow said, glaring at the man. "I know you're a gamblin' man, Croy, but these stakes is gettin' too high for..." He suddenly bit off the rest of his sentence as the bank door opened, the captain stepping back outside and the soldiers following, the pair carrying the strongbox between them.

"Where are the others? They done with their own errands yet?" Shelly asked as the soldiers loaded the payroll into the wagon. Before the scouts could reply, they saw Cassie coming down the street, a bright smile on her face and a large, flat package wrapped in brown paper in her arms. The captain swept off his hat and gave her a bow. "Glad to see you again, Miss Wainwright...or should I say 'Mrs. Hex'?" he asked, gesturing to the package.

"Not yet, but soon." The girl was positively beaming. "I knew it would be here today!"

Barstow looked over to his partner and mouthed, "High stakes." Croy didn't reply.

Daniels and the other soldier showed up not long after, each of them carrying a box of sundries. Once their items were secured along with the strongbox and Cassie's dress, the men saddled up again and proceeded back to the fort. Thet rode in silence until about halfway to their destination, when Barstow rode up beside the captain and said, "I think we can shave off some time if we head over that rise." He pointed off to the south.

"That'll take us away from the fort," Shelly replied.

"Not too far off. Besides, it's less hilly once you get past that...be a smoother ride all around." After a moment of consideration, Shelly agreed, and shouted new orders to his men. As they crested the rise, Shelly saw that the land did indeed flatten out into a bowl shape beyond it, dotted with trees as far as the eye could see. They headed down into it, Barstow taking the lead and directing them along a path through the trees. Gradually, he began to slow down his mount, causing the rest of the convoy to match his pace.

After a few minutes, the captain brought his horse up in line with the scout's, saying, "What the Devil's the problem, man? You've almost drove us to a dead stop."

"I don't think we're alone here, sir." Barstow drew his revolver and glanced around them. "There's definitely trouble about."

"Where? I don't see anything."

"Right here, jackass." He quickly brought his gun up to Shelly's head and pulled the trigger, blood and gray matter spraying everywhere. The soldiers reached for their own weapons, but Croy fired his rifle first, downing one of them. Just then, their fellow scouts Webster, Kincaid, and White Claw swooped out of a thick stand of trees behind the party, surrounding the wagon.

Cassie screamed, "What's happening? What are you doing?" She clutched at Daniels seated beside her on the wagon.

"Shut her up!" Croy barked at him.

Daniels hesitated, his hand on his revolver, then said quietly, "I'm sorry, Miss Wainwright." He drew his gun and clubbed her over the back of the head, knocking her off the wagon.

Despite being outnumbered, the two remaining soldiers opened fire on the scouts. Webster was knocked from his horse, a bullet embedded in his shoulder. Despite that, he still managed to clip one of them, and the other scouts finished to the job in quick order. "The Army should be more picky about who they induct," White Claw muttered as he dismounted. "These men were barely trying."

"Big words from somebody who _didn't get shot!_" Webster snapped. Barstow knelt beside him to wrap a bandana around the wound. "Christ, Walt, what took you guys so long?"

"Looks like he was spendin' his cut early." Kincaid had ripped open Cassie's package and was holding up her wedding dress. "This is bee-_yoo_-tee-ful, son!" he said with a laugh.

"Leave that be an' get crackin' on the strongbox." Barstow tossed him a ring of keys he'd found on the captain. "The key should be one of these." As he and Croy worked on that, Barstow pulled Webster to his feet -- the man wobbled, but he would be fine once he was on horseback.

Daniels came around to the back of the wagon, his pistol dangling limply from his hand. "You didn't say we was gonna kill all of 'em," he said to Croy.

"What did you think we was gonna do, invite 'em to be partners?" Croy flipped through the keyring to try another, and finally found the right one. He lifted the lid, and Kincaid let out a low whistle beside him. Inside the box were sacks of coins, both gold and silver, all U.S. government issue. "Boys, we ain't gonna have to worry 'bout payday for the rest of our lives." He hefted a sack of double eagles, then tossed it at Daniels, saying, "There, does that make you feel better?"

The man sank to his knees from the weight of the sack, and his partners had a good laugh at that, Webster included. "Come on, let's round up the horses and start filling the saddlebags," Barstow said, bringing them back to the task at hand. "Once we're all well away from here, we'll worry about divvying up the money."

The others began collecting the dead soldiers' mounts. White Claw moved to the front of the wagon to unhitch the team there, then suddenly called out, "Hey, where'd the girl go?"

"She fell," Daniels replied, "she's beside the wagon."

"Like Hell she is!" Croy had came over to where White Claw stood it check it out himself. He turned to Daniels, yelling, "I told you to take care of her!"

"You said shut her up, so I did, but I couldn't..." He cast his eyes to the ground.

Kincaid pointed to the northeast, shouting, "There she is!" Sure enough, Cassie was heading slowly across the open land, stumbling every few steps. At the rate she was moving, it would be hours before she reached Fort Andrews, but she had to try.

"Somebody go round her up," Croy said, but Barstow had other ideas. He'd picked up one of the soldier's rifles and reloaded it, and before anyone realized it, he took aim at the girl and fired. She dropped like a stone. "What the Hell was that for?" Croy snapped. "I had plans..."

"So did we," Barstow replied. "No witnesses, no dead weight...an' she was both. You want to ply your hand at ransom, Croy, you do it on your own damn time. Now, let's get the money an' get the Hell outta here."

* * *

"...so Ah rode straight into the Paiute camp, all hell-bent fer leather an' guns blazin', an' Ah managed tuh pull Samson up into the saddle behind me. We lit outta there afore they knew whut hit 'em, an' didn't stop 'til we was back inside Fort Winona." Jonah settled back in his chair, shaking his head. "They'd worked the poor fella over pretty good, but he recovered...though he ended up bein' shy a few digits." The young man waggled his own intact fingers for emphasis.

"With all you've been through, it seems remarkable that you're still around to talk about it." Wainwright picked up the bottle of bourbon and poured a little more into each of their glasses sitting on the desk. They'd gone through more than half the bottle so far while regaling one another with various tales of past experiences. The things Jonah spoke of sometimes left the colonel speechless just due to the sheer brutality of them -- the young man's usual distant, closemouthed behavior suddenly made more sense. "I'm also surprised that those experiences haven't driven you to seek out a...shall we say, more mundane lifestyle."

"If'n yo're implyin' thet Ah look fer trouble, thet certainly ain't the case." He paused to take a drag off his smoke -- in addition to the liquor, Wainwright had offered up a box of fine cigars. "Trouble finds me, fer good or fer ill, an' Ah've learned tuh just roll with it an' hope thet Ah come out on top in the end." A wry smile came to his lips as he said, "Considerin' thet Ah kin look forward tuh spendin' the rest of muh life with Cassie, Ah'd say everything's right as rain lately."

"And that is the crux of why I wanted to speak with you," the older man replied. "What sort of plans do you have in mind for the future?" Jonah simply gave him a puzzled look, so he continued, "Do you think that you can support yourself and Cassie on an Army scout's salary?"

"Tuh be perfectly honest, the thought hadn't crossed muh mind. Reckon scoutin' is all Ah know how tuh do...ain't got the foggiest notion 'bout farmin', so thet's right out..."

Wainwright waved a hand. "I didn't mean that you need a new profession, I meant have you ever considered being _more_ than a scout? A man of your talents could go far in the military."

"_Me?_ In the Army, with a commission an' all thet?" Jonah was sitting bolt upright in his chair, his eyes wide in disbelief. "Hell, Ah never even finished muh schoolin'!"

"That may be so, but you know how to read and write, which means you already have a leg up on the majority of soldiers in this fort alone. Plus you have knowledge of things that can't be taught in any schoolhouse, by which I mean all your years amongst the Apache." He let out a small laugh. "I'm sure you could teach some of the Army's so-called 'experts' a thing or three."

The young man took a drink, mulling it over -- he tried to picture himself clad in Union blue, brass buttons shining in the sun. "This is...this is awful big, sir," he said finally, "Ah reckon Ah might need some time tuh think this through."

"I understand, son. Though I must admit, it would be quite a sight at the wedding: you in uniform and Cassie in her..." He stopped abruptly when he heard a knock at the office door, and Corporal Louis poked his head in, a look of concern on his face.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir," he said, "but Captain Shelly an' the others is long overdue."

Wainwright pulled out his watch and muttered, "Good Lord, have we really been sitting here this long?" He then said to the corporal, "Send the other scouts out to check on them."

"I can't, sir, they've been gone all day, too."

"Well, where the Hell are they?" When Louis professed ignorance, the colonel snapped, "Are you telling me that every damn scout we've got is unaccounted for?"

"Except for Mr. Hex a-sittin' there...yessir, they is."

"This smells rotten," Jonah said, then turned to Wainwright. "Sir, how much money is supposed tuh be in thet payroll we's gettin'?"

"Close to a hundred thousand..." He suddenly grew pale. "You're not suggesting..."

"Ah'm doin' a mite more'n suggestin'," Hex replied, then stood up. "Ah'll admit Ah've been spendin' most of muh off-duty time with Cassie, but lately when Ah've been in the barracks, them boys have seemed a bit cagey...an' yuh all but said it yerself, sir: bein' an Army scout don't pay too well." He moved to the door, pausing only to tell Louis, "Go round up Parker, Hays, an' Randolph. Ah want all four of yuh saddled up an' at the front gate in five minutes."

The corporal stared at the departing scout, then at Wainwright, who barked at him, "You heard the man, now _move!" _Louis ran out of the office like his ass was on fire.

Hex didn't really want to bring along all those soldiers -- they were merely backup in case his suspicions about the other scouts was true -- the real work of tracking the party and finding where they'd gotten to all fell on him. He'd tracked men before, usually Indians, but never like this. If they'd truly stolen the payroll, then they were now outlaws, with no home camp or territory for him to zero in on. They could head anywhere, in any number, and Cassie...no, he couldn't let those sort of thoughts distract him now. Keeping his eyes glued to the plain before him, Jonah led the soldiers towards Portersville. He found fresh wheel tracks and horse prints leading towards town, but none coming back. When they reached the midpoint, he suddenly saw the return tracks. "Hold up now," he told the others, and dismounted. Jonah walked back the way they'd come about twenty feet, then turned about -- with no true road to follow, the two sets of tracks didn't overlap, but they were close enough for him to compare. "They came this far on the return trip," he explained, "but thet was it. They must've turned around or something." He hunkered down in between the tracks, staring at the muddled message they spelled out -- in his mind, he could see the wagon wheels backing up, the horses trampling the grass, but where...

"South...they done went south!" he called out to the soldiers, then ran to his mount, the other men already riding in the direction he indicated. The group headed up over the rise, and as soon as they gained the high ground, they saw the abandoned wagon. Without any thought of the possible danger, Jonah drove his horse forward as fast as it would go, flying across the open land and not stopping until he saw the first dead soldier. He dismounted and knelt beside the body. The bullet wounds were close-range -- whoever did it was right on top of him.

Randolph was the first to catch up. "I only count four bodies...where's the others?"

"Long gone. They took the money an' horses, then..." Jonah fell silent as he caught sight of something white fluttering in the back of the wagon: Cassie's wedding dress. He walked over and picked it up with numb hands. _They took her, too, _he thought. _The bastards must've..._

"There's another one!" Louis shouted. "Looks like...oh, sweet Jesus...Hex..."

He jerked his head up and looked in Louis' direction. Sure enough, there was another body splayed out in the grass. Dropping the dress, he started walking towards it. The corporal tried to stop him, but Jonah shoved him to the ground and he continued on. Someone told him not to look, but he had to make sure, he had to know. His whole body was numb now, save for a hard, clawing sensation in his throat, like something was lodged in there, choking him. He could hear nothing but the pounding of his heart, see nothing but Cassie's form laying face-down before him, a bloom of red between her shoulderblades. Falling to his knees, he reached out and turned her over -- the front of her dress was soaked in blood, a look of shock frozen on her face. His own face twisting into a grimace of pain, Jonah pulled her into his arms, feeling the weight of her body against his, remembering how she felt this morning when he swung her around the bedroom, how warm and alive she was, not cold and still and silent. His breath hissed in and out between his clenched teeth, the choking sensation growing, until finally a scream broke loose from Hex's throat, a tortured howl that didn't even convey a tenth of the agony in his soul.

* * *

_**1860:**_

All was quiet in the Turnbull household, save for the occasional rustle of newsprint coming from the sitting room. Quentin Turnbull was a firm believer in Sunday being the day of rest, and preferred to spend it perusing the local papers. He sat with his back to one of the large windows overlooking the Virginia plantation so as to take advantage of the afternoon light, the small table beside him holding the papers yet unread. On the other side of the table in an identical chair sat his son Jeb, a newssheet in his hands as well. Though a gulf of over thirty years lay between the two men in age, it was easy to see the family resemblance in the younger man's face, right down to the worrisome crease that developed above his eyes as he looked over the political bulletins. "Those Republicans up north have decided to have a go at the Presidency," he said to his father.

"Good Lord," Turnbull muttered. "Are they backing anyone of note?"

Jeb squinted at the small type. "A fellow named Lincoln."

"The same Lincoln that Douglas trounced two years ago?" His son concurred, and the elder man shook his graying head, saying, "Those people must be desperate. My opinion of the 'Little Giant' may have gone down in the past few months, but I'd rather see him in office than that damned rail-splitter." He lowered his own paper and tapped a finger against the front page. "Now Breckinridge here..._this_ is the man to back up." As he said so, the bell pull in the front hall rang out. "Who in the world could that be?" he muttered. After a few minutes their colored houseboy, himself going gray, came to the sitting room door.

"Pardon me, Mastuh Turnbull...Mastuh Jeb," he said, nodding to each in turn, "there's a man named Jonah Hex here, askin' tuh speak with Mastuh Jeb."

"Hex? I don't know any..." He stopped, his eyes growing wide. "My God, that was Cassie's beau!" He nearly leapt out of his chair, saying, "Of course I'll see him! Let him in, Solomon." The servant left to do so, and Jeb followed him into the front hall. Opening the front door, Solomon ushered into the foyer a young man about Jeb's age. He looked rather out-of-place in these refined surroundings, dressed as he was in a patched buckskin coat and homespun clothes, a battered slouch hat clutched in his hands. Despite the disparity between them, Jeb approached him and said, "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Hex. Cassie...God rest her soul...she spoke so lovingly of you in her letters."

"An' she did the same 'bout yerself, sir," Jonah said, his gruff Texas drawl sounding strange compared to Jeb's soft Virginia lilt. "Reckon Ah wouldn't be here if'n she hadn't."

"And what exactly does bring you here, Mr. Hex?" the elder Turnbull asked, leaning on a cane as he entered the foyer himself.

Jeb stepped aside, saying, "Oh, forgive me...this is my father, Quentin Turnbull." The two men shook hands, then Jeb gestured back to the other room. "Please, come sit and talk awhile."

Jonah hesitated, but soon let them lead him further into the house. Solomon moved a chair over to where the two gentleman sat only moments before. "Would you care for a drink, Mr. Hex?" Turnbull offered, then told the servant to pour some brandy before the Jonah could reply.

"Yuh don't need tuh go tuh all this trouble," Hex said as he sat down, "Ah was just...Hell, Ah ain't rightly sure just _whut_ Ah'm doin' here." He crumpled the brim of his hat in a nervous gesture. "Ah should be out there, lookin' fer them murderin' sons of bitches...forgive me, sirs, but there ain't no better word fer 'em."

"That...that's quite all right," Turnbull said after a moment, "though I don't know who exactly you're referring to."

"The sons of...the _men_ thet killed Cassie." He then explained to them about the robbery. "They took from me the only good thing Ah had in muh life," Jonah said when he was done, "an' they drove her poor father tuh the brink as well. Ah don't know whut the Army may've told y'all, but the Colonel blamed himself fer her death, kept sayin' she'd still be alive if'n he hadn't taken her away from Virginia. So the night after she died, he took his pistol an'..." Jonah pressed a finger to his temple and mimed pulling a trigger. "It's godawful, Ah know, but it's the truth... an' Ah swore on their graves thet Ah'd hunt down those bastards an' kill every last one of 'em fer it."

"My God," Jeb breathed, sinking into his chair. There had been a report sent to them by Major Franklin, but it had been rather barren of detail beyond the death of his Uncle Marcus and his cousin. Solomon chose that moment to bring over the drinks, and Jeb took his with barely a thought. "So these men, have you..." He let the question hang there unspoken.

Jonah downed his whole glass of brandy before replying, "No...not a damn one. An' it ain't fer lack of tryin': Ah've done little else this past year but look high an' low fer 'em. Trouble is, a hunnert thousand dollars goes a long way towards coverin' yer tracks." He held the empty glass in his left hand, and his wedding band clinked against it -- though Cassie was over a year in her grave, he refused to take it off. "Ah ran down every lead Ah could find, spent every last cent Ah had, but Ah never gave up. Then one night, Ah ended up in some rathole border town in Missouri. Ah was dead broke, no leads left tuh follow, an' tuh be perfectly honest with y'all, Ah felt tired. Just dead-dog, down-in-muh-bones tired, an' Ah was missin' Cassie something fierce..." Hex fell silent for a time, staring at the floor, then said, "She used tuh tell me 'bout growin' up here, how dif'rent it was from muh end of it all, an' Ah got tuh thinkin' 'bout how Ah was right on top of the Mississippi, so Ah thought, 'Well, maybe Ah should get on a boat an' cross it, just tuh say Ah'd been on the other side.' So Ah did, an' when Ah got off in Kentucky, Ah thought, 'Well, Ah done come this far east, maybe Ah should go a mite further.' So Ah did...an' the next thing Ah knew, Ah was a-standin' on yer front porch." He raised his head finally and looked at the two men before him -- they were struck by the exhaustion showing in Jonah's eyes, like he'd relived every step of his journey while talking about it. "Ah ain't lookin' fer no handouts or nothin'. Ah just wanted tuh pay muh respects, maybe spend a few days in Richmond, then head on back the way Ah came."

"My boy," Turnbull said, "you will do nothing of the sort." He stood up and laid a hand on Jonah's shoulder. "After all you've been through, you deserve to rest."

"Ah cain't rest, sir. They's still out there, an' Ah made a promise..."

"And it will be fulfilled: we'll hire some detectives to pick up where you left off, contact as many lawmen out West as we can -- I know quite a few people of influence, son," he said with a measure of pride. "Those men will be found and brought to justice, I assure you. In the meantime..." Turnbull looked over to Solomon, who was standing silently off to one side of the room. "Prepare one of the guest rooms for Mr. Hex, and have one of the stable boys..." He stopped and glanced at Jonah. "I presume you rode to our house today?"

Jonah began to object, but Jeb chimed in with, "There's no point in arguing with my father. Once he's made his mind up about something, it would take nothing short of an act of God to get him to change it." He came over to stand on the other side of Jonah's chair, flanking him neatly. "Besides, I'm sure Cassie would have been pleased to know that we're looking after you."

He glanced from one man to the next, then nodded, saying, "Alright, Ah'll stay a spell...but just long enough tuh get things goin' with these contacts yuh mentioned, Mr. Turnbull. Like Ah said afore, Ah ain't lookin' fer a handout from y'all."

"The thought was the furthest thing from my mind," Turnbull replied with a smile. "As far as I'm concerned, you're practically family."

* * *

A few days later, Jonah met with the investigators Quentin Turnbull hired, laying out all the information he'd acquired over the past year, and describing the six men and their habits to help narrow down any future leads. They seemed like competent men to Jonah, but instead of relief, he only felt more guilty -- this was his task, and for over a year, he'd failed miserably at it. Walking away from it and handing it over to someone else just added to the sting. But he wanted to do what was best by Cassie, and the Turnbulls were her proper family. If they thought the matter should be turned over to professionals, then he'd abide by their wishes. He just wished he could have done something more, brought both Cassie's soul and his own some measure of peace.

After speaking with the detectives, Hex decided he should be moving on -- he meant what he said about not being a freeloader, and didn't want to burden these near-strangers with his presence any longer than necessary. Despite this, Jonah found himself dragging his feet when it came to actually departing. He'd make ready for bed each night, thinking of how he should get down to the train station in the morning and check the schedules, then spend the entirety of the next day with Jeb, the two of them touring the Virginia countryside on horseback or sitting in the parlor and reminiscing about Cassie. The latter was difficult for Jonah at first -- the mere thought of her was enough to make him tremble with grief sometimes -- but he soon realized how much the girl's death had wounded Jeb as well. They had both loved her deeply, though not in the same way, and together they found a small amount of solace in their mutual pain.

Deep down, Hex knew the real reason why he kept putting off his departure: once he crossed the Mississippi again and returned to the West, he'd be alone, even more so than before he met Cassie, and he couldn't bear the thought of that just yet. So he lingered on, days turning into weeks, weeks into months. Fortunately for him, the Turnbulls didn't seem to mind Jonah staying longer than he'd originally planned, and treated him like he truly was part of their family, though Jonah was certainly not used to traveling in the same circles as they did. For three generations, the Turnbulls had made a fine living off tobacco, and was one of the richest families in Virginia because of it. As such, Quentin and his son attended many social events in Richmond where they regularly rubbed elbows with both politicians and other plantation owners. Jonah often found himself being pulled along to these high-society functions, dressed in fancy duds borrowed from Jeb -- the well-worn clothes of a former frontier scout would not do in this setting. No amount of sprucing up, however, could hide the fact that Hex was not of their ilk: all it took was one look at his rough, callused hands to reveal that he was a man who had toiled long and hard at physical labor his entire life, not a member of the idle rich.

As was common at these social gatherings, the subject of politics came up often. Jonah had no interest in such things, but Quentin could talk about it for hours, and as the presidential elections quickly approached, one particular sore point kept surfacing that many of his fellow Southerners agreed upon: if Lincoln and his anti-slavery Republicans took office, there would be Hell to pay. "It's all well and good for those people to sit about and talk of abolition," Turnbull said at one party, a glass of liquor in one hand and his ever-present cane in the other, "for they know that it wouldn't affect them one damn bit. It's quite easy to do away with an institution that you do not participate in yourself...at least not in name. The Republicans make such a noise about how inhumane and degrading the practice of slavery is, yet they turn a blind eye to their own factories in the North, full of Irishmen and other filthy immigrants, toiling away for pennies and living in squalor. We care for our Negroes, see that they're properly clothed and fed, and _they_ let their workers die in the streets! Who is inhumane now?" he asked, daring anyone to oppose him.

The men gathered around him murmured assent, one of them saying, "How do they expect us to make a living if we turn them all loose? Takes thirty Negroes to bring in my crop, plus all the others I've got taking care of my property. They gonna ship down some of them Irish to help out?" A laugh rippled through the group at that.

"I highly doubt it. The consequences of their proposed action matter not to them, just that they get their way." He spoke fervently on the matter, for he had much to lose himself: the Turnbull plantation utilized close to eighty slaves, from the fields to the stables to the house itself. "All of the North looks down upon us, just as England once looked down upon the whole of America before the Revolution. 'Do as we say, or we will discipline you,' they say, but not with words: they say it with their laws, with their 'free states'...they act as if making a new state open to slavery would force all citizens to buy a Negro. Better to eliminate the option, they think, and thereby force those who _do_ participate in our peculiar institution to stay out of the West." He stopped and turned to Jonah, standing at the edge of the group. "Your home state of Texas allows slaves...tell me, my boy, how do you think it will fare if the Republicans rule the land?"

Hex balked at being put on the spot, and took a long moment to finish his drink before answering, "Tuh be honest, Ah ain't never known any folk whut owned slaves..._colored_ slaves." He hoped no one noticed the way he amended his words. "Most of the folk Ah knew was too poor tuh afford thet sort of thing...but the choice was there, like yuh said. If'n they wanted tuh buy a slave, they could, an' if'n they didn't want tuh, they didn't have tuh. Thet's the whole idea of America, ain't it? Freedom of choice. Ain't right tuh try an' take thet away from somebody just 'cause yuh don't agree with 'em."

"Well put, young man," Turnbull said, smiling, then turned back to the rest of the group. "That is exactly what this comes down to: freedom of choice, and the North wanting to take away our ability to make any other choice but their own. Should Lincoln win the day come November, I do believe we shall have to take drastic action to preserve our freedom." The men gathered knew he was referring to secession -- talk like that had been bubbling for months all across the South, and some states were already putting legislation in motion to do just that should the Republicans win. It was a bold move, but many were beginning to see it as necessary if they were to preserve their individual rights. For Jonah, the point was moot: as he said, he looked upon slave-owning as a choice, and his own choice was to not participate, so whether it existed or not, or _where _it existed, affected him not in the least...

But in the grand scheme of things, the indifference of a man like Jonah Hex meant little compared to the feelings of the rest of his countrymen -- the cracks between North and South had been forming for decades, and it was only a matter of time before the entire Union split in half under the strain.

* * *

_**1861:**_

By mid-April, the world seemed to change literally overnight: on the evening of the 11th, Jonah had gone to sleep in a land that lay precariously between the United States and the newly-formed Confederate States of America -- after Lincoln's election, seven states had made good on their threats to secede. Virginia existed in a strange limbo area, part of the Union but an ardent supporter of slavery. On the morning of the 12th, however, he awoke to news that Confederate guns in South Carolina had opened fire on Fort Sumter, a Federal outpost within the Southern border -- the reviled Mr. Lincoln had dared to send his troops supplies, and the South didn't approve in the least. All through Richmond, people were calling it an act of war, and before the week was out, Virginia had become the eighth member of the Confederacy. Jonah was now an expatriate, and he hadn't moved an inch.

The business of committing to one side or the other done, talk around Richmond quickly turned to raising an army to defend their blessed homeland from "foreign invaders". The thought of marching out to war was not one Hex found pleasing, and he felt no shame in saying so when the subject came up one night at dinner in the Turnbull household. "Y'all got tuh understand, Ah've been in more'n one battle afore, out on the frontier. Ah've seen men get killed, an' Ah've done some killin' muhself…it ain't exactly a cakewalk, all-around."

"Are you telling me that you're willing to stand by while those people come marching across our borders?" Quentin asked. "You've never struck me as the sort of person to back down from a fight."

"Ah ain't backin' down from nothin'...an' Ah ain't seen one Yankee soldier set foot 'round here yet, neither."

"But they _will:_ as we speak, the North is gathering troops to put down our little 'insurrection', as they call it." He said the word with obvious distaste. "You can't just sit around and wait until they're knocking on the door before taking action. You know it's coming, my dear boy, and for someone with your experience to bow out before the first shot is fired..."

"Ah kin think of a place where thet experience is needed: back West, findin' them fellas whut killed Cassie...an' thet yer lauded 'professionals' ain't found hide nor hair of." The lack of progress Turnbull's investigators were making on the case made him wonder (not for the first time) if handing it over to strangers was really the best thing.

"I told you, these things take time -- you recall how much difficulty you were having, and I'm sure the men on the case are running into the same problems. Trust me, the moment they turn up anything, you'll be the first to know."

"Jonah, I understand that you want justice for Cassie and Uncle Marcus, but as much as I hate to say it, we've got bigger concerns than that right now," Jeb added. "The Confederate Army needs men like you, and besides, it's not like you'd be going it alone...I'm signing up, with or without you."

"Yuh lost yer mind, Jeb? Yuh may be a good horseman, but yuh don't know a lick 'bout fightin'." Hex jabbed a finger at him. "This ain't like chasin' game out in the woods -- if'n yuh go up against a well-trained soldier, he'll cut yuh down afore yuh even have a chance tuh raise yer gun."

"Then come with me and show me how to be _better_ than those other soldiers," he said. "You've said before that you don't agree with what the North is trying to do to us...aren't you willing to fight for those beliefs?"

A silence fell over the dining room as Jonah considered their words. To pick up a gun again, after all these months...something inside him did miss the rush of danger, the knowledge that your life depended on your skill versus that of the man before you. He also thought of what Colonel Wainwright had told him on that last sane day, sipping bourbon in his office: a military career would suit a man of Hex's background very well. To be sure, the colonel could never have envisioned the situation before Jonah at the moment, but had he still been alive, he very likely would have resigned his U.S. Army commission, as many other Southern-born military men had done in the past few months, and returned to Virginia for the purpose of defending his home state...and he very likely would have brought Jonah along to fight beside him.

He picked up his napkin from his lap, balled it up, and tossed the linen next to his dinner plate. "So...where we gotta go tuh sign up fer this party?"

* * *

The two young men had to wait nearly three months after their initial induction into the Army to see any action. Due to their mutual experience on horseback, they signed up for cavalry duty, and were assigned to the 4th Virginia. The regiment was a mix of raw recruits and seasoned men, and in the interim, they prepared themselves as best they could for the fighting ahead, drilling until the ragged lines of men tightened up and formed something bordering on military. No one had any idea what to expect, even Hex -- his background was based on plains warfare, where there may not be a town for miles. In the skirmishes to come, they could possibly be fighting within rifle range of people's houses and farms. Some of these soldiers might be defending their home soil in a very literal sense.

When the word finally came in July, the regiment headed north, sometimes by rail, sometimes on the march, until they reached the town of Manassas, a scant thirty miles from the Potomac River and, consequently, Washington D.C. -- a rumor spread amongst the men that they were going to barrel headlong across the water and wipe out the city just to spite the Yankees. Jonah doubted very much about that, but the significance of their location wasn't lost on him, and he knew the Union would fight like Hell to keep the Confederates far from their capital. "There's gonna be a lot of blood spilled here," Hex told Jeb that evening around the campfire. "If'n we live through this, it'll be a damn miracle."

"You've got to have faith, cousin." The younger Turnbull pulled off his forage cap and ran a hand through his dark blonde hair. "Them Northern boys are more than likely as green as we are. Besides, we have the upper hand: they have to try and puncture our lines to get anywhere in this war, while we merely have to hold them back." He slapped the kepi back on his head and gave Jonah a lopsided smile. Hex wondered if he'd still be so cocky after he'd been shot at a few times.

The battle began at dawn the next day, with Union troops marching in a line across a small stream the locals called Bull Run, some using the bridge, others wading through the water. Waiting for them in an open field was the 4th Cavalry, along with thousands of other soldiers from other regiments, both mounted and on foot. For the first time in over a year, Jonah could feel that old sensation returning to his body, the sharpening of senses that tightened his focus on the battle ahead. When the charge was sounded and he drove his horse forward, all thoughts of danger left his mind -- even Jeb riding beside him on his own mount was forgotten. Hand and eye and target, that was all that remained. For hours the cannons roared and gunshots rang out until it became nothing but a wall of noise, and all the while Jonah tore through the Union men, firing off shots from his Enfield that rarely missed their mark. While many of his fellow cavalrymen had to pause to reload their rifles, he could do the same on horseback with an efficiency that came from years spent out West, sometimes resorting to holding the reins in his teeth and gripping the horse with his legs. When his ammunition ran out, he sank his bayonet into soldiers as he passed, and when one Yankee grabbed hold of it as he fell dying, Jonah called it a loss and pulled out his revolvers. All around him was chaos, but he paid it no mind -- so long as he could ride, he refused to stop.

At one point in the battle, long after midday, an unusual thing happened: Hex saw a line of the Union soldiers begin to retreat, a few even dropping their guns as they ran. Removing his kepi and waving it at some cavalrymen behind him, he called out, "C'mon, them sons of bitches have done lost their nerve!" He then set his mount after the enemy, letting loose with an Apache war cry that unsettled the retreating Yankees even more -- they dove for cover along the banks of the stream, trying to scramble to the other side before they were trampled by the horses. Quite a few were, while others were ambushed by infantrymen and taken prisoner. Not long after, other Northerners started to turn tail, until it seemed their entire army had given up the fight and decided that things would be safer back in Washington. The Confederates didn't let up on them, however, herding the men across the water like cattle or cutting down those who refused to yield. By nightfall, the battle was all but over, and the South clearly stood as the victor -- all across the ruin of the battlefield, men raised their voices in a Rebel yell that could be heard for miles. They had sustained losses as heavy as their opponent, but they still held their ground while the North had nothing to show for it but wounds to both their men and their pride.

The bragging seemed to start almost immediately, even as they collected up the dead and wounded. A good many soldiers spoke of General Thomas Jackson's defensive stance during the battle, likening it to a stone wall. One private, a transplanted Texan like Hex by the name of Smith, told anyone who would listen about the Yankee who shot off two of his toes, and how Smith returned the favor by gutting the man and stealing his saber and hat -- oddly enough, the Yankee's rank seemed to increase with each telling. Jonah himself did no bragging, feeling that the Federals gave as good as they got, though a few men were willing to brag for him, including Jeb. "In all my days, I've never seen a man ride like you, Jonah," he said when they finally caught up with one another again -- by a stroke of luck, both of them had come through the battle with only minor injuries. "I swear, I could hardly tell where the horse ended and you began."

"Just doin' whut comes natural," he replied with a shrug. "Weren't nothin' special."

"'Nothin' special'? Well, I can't wait to see what you're like when you really get going!" Jeb clapped the former scout on the back, the smile from the night before on his face again. "Didn't I tell you this was going to work in our favor?"

Hex allowed himself a small smile -- he had to admit, he'd never expected the North to fold in so easily. "Reckon yuh did...maybe this'll all be over sooner than we thought."

* * *

The entire South was flush with success after that battle, but they soon found it was no guarantee of victory. Months passed, and with them came more fighting, which the 4th Cavalry got their fair share of, and more dead, which they also received in saddening numbers. Those who'd joined up with romantic notions of military life in their heads quickly learned how false those were: wartime consisted mainly of quick bursts of fighting for one's life, followed by long stretches of boredom and hunger and exhaustion. It wore on Jeb soon enough, but Jonah shrugged it off -- the experience was nothing new to him, just the fact that there were so many others around him going through the same pains.

When December came around, the regiment moved into winter quarters not far from Richmond. Some of the other soldiers in the unit were from the area, and were eager to steal away for just a while to visit their loved ones, but Jeb and Jonah landed the best time for furlough: three days falling right on the Christmas holiday. The other men cussed them out repeatedly for their good luck, right up until the two young men saddled up for the ride home -- they responded with aw-shucks grins and boasts of how wonderful home cooking would taste after months of salt pork and hardtack, and it was a cryin' shame the other fellas would miss it.

The plantation looked the same as ever when they arrived, only now there were holly boughs and candles decorating the windows. Solomon saw them approach and called out to his master, who met the weary soldiers at the door. "It's so wonderful to see you again after all these months," Turnbull said as he embraced his son. "When you sent word that you were coming home, I could hardly believe it."

"We can hardly believe our luck ourselves," Jeb replied, "but I think they knew that if we didn't get furlough, we were liable to run off on 'em." As Solomon and one of the other servants took care of their mounts and gear, the three men moved to the sitting room and settled into the plush chairs, a welcome change from the furnishings found back at camp. "Lord, I'd almost forgotten how normal people live," he sighed as he propped his feet up.

"There yuh go again, bellyachin'," Jonah said with a grin. "Ah knew yuh wasn't suited fer Army life." In truth, he was also glad to be spending Christmas Eve someplace other than a leaking tent -- he'd gotten quite used to life on the plantation himself.

"And how have things been out in the field?" Turnbull asked. "It's one thing to read about it in the papers, but you boys have been in the thick of it. I'm sure you have a few wild tales to tell."

Jonah and Jeb then spent the next hour regaling him with stories that ran the gamut from horrifying to mundane. While in the midst of telling him about raiding a Union encampment, Jeb stopped and jumped up from his chair. "That reminds me...be back in a moment," he said, then left the room. He returned a few minutes later carrying a long, slender object carefully wrapped in canvas. "After we ransacked the camp, I found this in what was left of the Yankee general's tent, and you were the first person I thought of." He unwrapped it with a flourish, revealing a polished mahogany cane, topped with a brass eagle's-head handle. "Just a little something to show off in town," he said as he handed it to his father.

"This is beautiful. Just having you here for Christmas is gift enough, but this..." The elder Turnbull's eyes misted over. "You boys certainly know how to move an old man." He stood, leaning on his new cane, and gestured over to the Christmas tree set up in the corner of the room. "And since we're all in the giving mood, it seems appropriate that you open your gifts now, as well."

The young men did as Turnbull asked. Underneath the decorated branches were two hatboxes -- they glanced at each other, puzzled, then pulled the ribbons and opened them, each revealing a gray, broad-brimmed slouch hat, with gold braid and a pair of tassels around the band. "Beggin' yer pardon, sir," Jonah said, "but these is officer's hats. We cain't wear these."

"Well, I will admit, the gift is a bit premature, but I believe by the time you get back to your regiment, everything will be in order."

"What do you mean?" Jeb asked.

"A few weeks ago, I learned that Colonel Ashby, of the 7th Cavalry, was given permission to add some more companies on to his regiment. Now when I heard that, the first thing I thought was, 'I suppose he'll need some officers to head those new companies.' So I talked to some folks I know, pulled a few favors..." The man gave them a grin. "In short, by the New Year, you two will be lieutenants under the dear colonel."

"Lieutenants? _We're_ gonna be _lieutenants?_" Jeb looked like he was about to faint -- the two of them had only just reached sergeant. To suddenly jump rank like that without some spectacular feat of bravery being involved was unheard of. He started laughing, saying to Hex, "Can you believe this? The two of us are going to be officers!"

Jonah pulled his hat out of the box and held it before him for a moment, then slipped it on. It was a good fit. _Well, Colonel Wainwright, _he thought_, looks like Ah got thet commission after all._

The next evening, a Christmas party was held in Richmond in honor of those soldiers home on leave. Despite still being weary from their journey, Turnbull insisted that they all attend -- he knew that there would be some high-ranking officers there, and he thought the young men should be properly introduced to them. So with Solomon at the reins of the carriage, Hex and the Turnbulls set off for town.

The party itself was lavish. Though the war had made many staple goods scarce, no expense had been spared on the feast laid out for the revelers: flocks of roast chickens and countless smoked hams, tables groaning under the weight of the pies and cakes piled upon them, and endlessly-flowing liquor of every sort. And then there were the ladies, all decked out in their finest, all willing to wait upon these brave men in uniform who would soon have to face the roar of the cannon once again. More than a few made their way to Jonah's side, and he even took a turn on the floor with a lovely girl as the band played a gentle ballad, but in his heart, he didn't feel it was right to take it any further -- though he'd taken off his wedding ring months ago so as to not attract attention on the battlefield, his thoughts would still linger from time to time on Cassie. It was going to take more than a friendly smile from a passing stranger to make him forget her.

A few hours into the festivities, a man set up a tripod near a Confederate flag hanging on the wall and began taking photographs for the soldiers. Upon seeing this, Jeb tugged at Jonah's elbow, saying, "Come on, let's give my father something to remember us by once we're gone." They took their place in front of the flag as they waited for the photographer to change plates -- Jeb removed his new hat, tucked it beneath his arm, and tried to look every inch an officer, while Jonah simply wore the same unreadable expression on his face that he always had.

"Come on, fella," the photographer said to Hex, "You've got to try a little harder than that...act like you just won the whole damn war single-handed."

Jeb reached over as if to shake hands with his friend and said in a mock-serious tone, "Congratulations, son, the Confederacy is in your debt...you may now have a free run at the cathouse of your choice." That got Jonah to loosen up a little.

"That's perfect! Don't move a muscle, now." He raised the tray of flash powder, and after a moment it went up with a _paff!_ The two men tried not to turn away at the sudden flare. "So, what regiment am I gonna send this to?"

"You can send it to Mister Quentin Turnbull of Richmond," Jeb replied, "compliments of Lieutenants Turnbull and Hex." He couldn't help but smile as he said it.

Around eleven, the party began to wind down, and they decided to head home. Jonah did his best to sit up straight in the carriage -- he'd imbibed just a little too much that night -- while Quentin and his son talked on and on about what this captain or that general had said. To Jonah, it was just the same sort of posturing that Turnbull had done at all those fancy parties before the war, and paid it no mind. As they neared the plantation, however, something else caught his attention: a man riding fast towards them, almost invisible in the dark. Hex bade Solomon to stop, and the servant pulled up short just as the rider reached them -- it was Lucas, one of the white overseers.

"I was just comin' to find you, Mr. Turnbull," he said breathlessly. "The Nigras...they've gone plain crazy, up an' started attackin' my men with pitchforks an' what-have-you."

"Then what the Hell are you doing out here, then?" Turnbull snapped. "Take care of it, that's what I pay you for!"

"We're tryin', sir, but they've already killed one of my men, and a bunch of 'em set fire to the barn...it's a damn mess, sir."

"And it looks like we're gonna have to clean it up for you," Jeb said, and hopped out of the carriage, already drawing his sidearm. "You'd best stay back here while me and Hex handle this," he told his father, then turned to Lucas. "And you stay here too...try not to run off."

The young men made their way up the road until they were within sight of the house, and soon saw firsthand what the man was talking about. Flames were licking up one wall of the barn over on the south end of the property, and in the light of it they could see slaves running about, igniting torches and doing their best to set the house ablaze as well. Some of the white farmhands stood on the front porch and the balcony above it, firing at them with shotguns, but they were badly outnumbered. "Hmph...some furlough this turned out to be," Jeb said, and cocked his pistol. "Head for the porch, it seems the most defensible position."

Hex nodded, and the two of them broke from cover and ran across the yard. Some of the slaves nearby attacked them, but bits of firewood and farm implements were no match for cold iron -- almost in unison, Jonah and Jeb's guns went off, cutting the slaves down mid-stride. Others tried their luck and met the same fate, until the two men reached the porch. Jonah grabbed hold of one of the workers there and yelled, "Take care thet fire right now afore it kin do any more damage!" The man refused to budge, so Jonah shoved him off the porch. He then picked up a spare rifle and began picking off any slaves that barred the man's path. "Whut in tarnation started all this?" he asked another man.

"Some of the coloreds got it in their heads that the Yankees was gonna swoop down here an' free 'em all," he said. "Guess they figured they'd help 'em along."

Jonah stopped shooting, going so far as to lower his rifle. "They think the Yankees is fightin' fer _them?"_

"With Lincoln sitting up there in Washington, they may as well be," Jeb replied as he reloaded. "What's gotten into you, Jonah? Keep at 'em before they swarm us!"

After another moment of hesitation, Hex began shooting again. Eventually, the situation came under control, and most of the slaves were rounded up -- in the commotion, eight had disappeared, and nearly twice as many lay dead all around the property. Two of the white farmhands were killed as well, and the barn was a loss, but luckily the house itself received only superficial damage. When Turnbull finally saw the results of the uprising, the look of anger on his face was almost painful. "Find out which one of them started this mess," he told Lucas and his men through gritted teeth, "and when you do, I want him whipped within an inch of his life in front of the whole lot of them. They will remember, damn them, what their proper place is." The men went off to do as he ordered, then Turnbull looked to his son and Hex, the anger suddenly replaced by weariness. "I'm truly sorry, boys. I wanted to give you a fine Christmas to remember before you had to go back, but I certainly hadn't expected this."

"That's quite all right, it's not your fault in the least. It's this damn war, it's turned the whole world upside-down." Jeb put an arm around his father's shoulders. "Pretty soon, it'll all be over, and life can get back to normal around here...right, Jonah?" He looked over at his fellow soldier.

"Right as rain," Hex replied, but his attention wasn't on the Turnbulls, it was on the overseer far behind them, knocking one of the slaves to the ground with a blow to the head as he tried to wring a confession out of him.

* * *

_**1862:**_

Just as Turnbull had promised, Jeb and Jonah were transferred to the 7th Virginia Cavalry as lieutenants not long after New Year's. The increased rank also meant increased responsibility, and the two of them did their best to set an example for the enlisted men under them. The new year also brought a new challenges for the Confederates, for the Federals were gaining footholds throughout the South. For months, the two armies clashed, losing ground one day and reclaiming it not long after. The 7th Cavalry seemed unable to get a respite through it all, but they pressed on at the behest of their commanding officers, even as their comrades fell around them on the battlefield. The worst blow came in mid-September as General Lee's forces invaded Maryland, hoping to give the North a taste of the suffering they'd endured on their side of the border. After assisting General Jackson in the taking of Harpers Ferry, the 7th Cavalry followed him to Sharpsburg, near Antietam Creek, and joined the thousands of Confederate troops already gathered there. They locked horns with the Union men in an all-out bloodbath until, regretfully, Lee had to concede that his losses were too great -- the Rebels had no choice but to retreat back to Virginia.

It was a horrific blow to Southern morale, with over nine thousand dead or wounded and not an inch of Northern ground in their possession to show for it. Like many other soldiers, the men under Hex and Turnbull's command were rather sullen for days -- they'd lost nearly a third of their company in that one conflict. Unfortunately, the war was not about to stop on their account, and the two lieutenants faced the unenvied task of keeping them focused on the battles to come and not the one behind them.

A week after Sharpsburg, Hex took out a platoon to scout for possible Yankee activity near the border. By their second day out, they'd found nothing but a family of runaway slaves. Standing orders were for all Negroes to be put back into bondage, so they took the blacks prisoner and brought them along as they made their way back the regiment. Though he held his tongue, the situation gave Jonah an ill feeling in his stomach -- ever since the incident at the Turnbull plantation, the sight of slaves unsettled him in a way it never had before. He tried to dismiss it, reasoning that it was due to having to shoot so many of them, while the slaves had been armed with nothing more than improvised clubs at best. _It was either yerself or them, an' yuh know they wouldn't have hesitated tuh do yuh in,_ he told himself. But the feeling persisted, especially when he caught sight of the way the recaptured slaves looked at him in his gray uniform.

When they made camp for the night, Hex found himself tossing and turning in his bedroll. He eventually gave up and sat in his tent, rolling one smoke after another as he stared at the canvas walls. _This is ridiculous,_ he thought. _Whut's done is done, Jonah boy, so why yuh keep lettin' whut happened last Christmas eat at yuh?_ He didn't know, and that didn't help matters much. "Hell with it," he muttered, and left his tent. The rest of the camp was sound asleep, the only light being a small fire near where they'd tied up the horses -- a guard sat watch over there with the slaves, who were bound hand and foot to prevent trouble. Jonah walked over that way, figuring that, if he wasn't going to sleep, the least he could do was take watch for a while and let the other man catch some shuteye. When he got close, however, he noticed that the soldier was leaning strangely against an old stump. _Fella's done nodded off already,_ Hex thought, then saw that the slaves were missing, the ropes they'd been bound with cut and cast aside . Cursing under his breath, he checked the guard and found the man had only been knocked out, then he cast his eyes about the ground looking for tracks. What he saw was not to his liking: in addition to the footprints left by the departing slaves, there was an unknown set of prints, large and possibly clad in moccasins.

_Good Lord...it might be thet Scalphunter. _There had been talk winding through the regiments about a huge, crazy Indian that had been massacring Confederates and spiriting away any Negroes in their possession -- a few claimed that they'd seen him make trophies from the dead men's bodies, and had dubbed him "Scalphunter" because of it. Jonah had dismissed it as just stories, but now he wasn't so sure. Though he was wearing nothing more than his longjohns and a pair of trousers, Hex grabbed the unconscious soldier's pistol and followed the tracks off towards the woods, hoping that they weren't too far ahead of him. Sure enough, he soon spotted the group as they passed through a break in the trees, a tall, dark-haired man in buckskin leading the way. "Halt or Ah'll shoot!" Jonah ordered. The blacks froze in place, but the other man simply turned and urged them forward. "Ah mean it, dammit!" Jonah said to them. "Don't test me!" Again, the other man ignored his threats, and this time managed to get the runaways moving again before coming at Jonah with surprising speed.

As the Indian barreled towards him, Hex let off a shot but missed, and was knocked flat before he had a chance to fire again. Sitting on top of him, the man wrenched the gun from Jonah's hand and tossed it away, nearly snapping off his trigger finger in the process. _The big fella plays rough, _he thought, _good thing Ah do, too. _Jonah chopped the flat of his other hand against the Indian's throat, causing him to gag and loosen his grip for a moment. He then pulled himself free, tucked in his legs, and kicked the man square in the chest -- the Indian fell backward, and Jonah tried to reach for the gun. Unfortunately, it wasn't going to be that easy, as the Indian was on him again in seconds, wrapping his arms around the Rebel's chest in a bear hug. His arms locked at his sides, Hex groped for anything to give him an advantage, and found it in a knife hanging from the Indian's belt -- he managed to unsheathe it and jabbed it into his opponent's thigh. Once again, the Indian let go, but not in the way he'd expected: with a growl, his opponent threw Hex against a nearby tree, temporarily dazing him. Before he could reach his feet, the Indian's hand was around his throat, the knife he'd just used now inches from his face.

"You shouldn't have followed us," his opponent said, leaning in close. "I didn't do your fellow soldier any permanent harm, but you just couldn't bear the thought of those innocent people finding their way to freedom, could you?" Jonah gasped for air as the man tightened his grip. "You disgust me...but at least I'll have the satisfaction of knowing you won't live long enough to enslave anyone else." Their eyes were locked together as the man moved the knife down to Hex's belly. In what seemed like a moment of lunacy, Hex thought those eyes looked somewhat familiar -- he knew he'd seen that face somewhere before, but it was hard to peer beneath the streak of red warpaint covering it. Then, in the moonlight, he saw an odd strawberry-colored mark on the side of the man's neck.

_It cain't be..._Jonah thought, but considering he was seconds away from being gutted, he was willing to try anything. Drawing in as much breath as he could, he said in the common language used by most Indians on the plains, "Why is it...that we always...end up fighting each other?" His opponent stared at him, shocked to hear a white man speaking in that tongue. "I hope you are not mad at me...for almost breaking your arm...all those years ago," Jonah continued, the words coming out in strangled gasps.

Slowly, the man's fingers eased up and he backed away, the look of shock growing on his face. "You...you're the Apache slave I fought in Kansas, at the meeting of chiefs," he said in English. "Of all the people to run into out here..."

"Funny, Ah was thinkin' the same," Hex croaked as he rubbed his throat. "Reckon yuh ain't a slave no more."

"No, I won my freedom years ago...as you did, obviously." He shook his head. "I'm sorry to see that you didn't learn anything from the experience."

"Whut the Hell's thet supposed tuh mean?"

"Look at you: fighting to keep people in bondage after you've suffered the same. How can you side with _them?"_

"Ah'm fightin' with them 'cause Ah believe thet the North should mind its own goddam business instead of nosin' around in ours. All we want is tuh be left alone, an' they won't oblige us."

"Do you honestly believe that's all this war is about?"

Jonah glared at the man for a moment, then his eyes dropped away. "Thet's the only part Ah care about. Slavery don't matter tuh me one way or another."

"How can you ignore the problem after what we went through? Have you forgotten how our Indian masters treated us, humiliated us? Don't you think that the Negroes suffer just as much as we did, if not more? Don't you think that they have just as much right to escape that as we did?"

Hex gave no answer, his mind going back to the uprising at the Turnbull plantation, to the ill feeling that had taken hold of him ever since then. Though he had been set free by High Cloud nearly ten years ago, he could still remember what it was like to be nothing more than property to someone, and he could see an echo of those days in the eyes of every slave he passed...and yet he kept crowing about how white Southerners should have the freedom to live as they please while he forced coloreds back into a life that he'd despised. "But this is the way things are," he said quietly, knowing how weak and stupid it sounded the moment the words left his mouth. "In the South, colored folk are slaves...yuh cain't just wave yer hand an' make it disappear."

"Then I guess you haven't heard..." the Kiowa warrior began to say, then stopped as a shout carried through the wood from the direction of camp.

"Reckon thet gunshot woke the boys up," Jonah muttered, then turned to the other man. "Ah cain't believe Ah'm sayin' this, but yuh'd best get tuh steppin' afore they see yuh."

"What about you? Don't tell me you're going back to them."

"Yuh've given me some things tuh think about, but Ah've still got responsibilities. Just let me work this out in muh own time."

"All right, I just hope you've gotten it worked out by the next time we meet, because if you haven't..." He let the sentence trail off.

"Ah understand, an' Ah hope it don't come tuh thet." The man turned to leave, but Hex stopped him, saying, "Wait, afore yuh go...hit me." When he just stared at him, Hex explained, "If'n Ah'm conscious when they find me, they's gonna wonder why, so..." He picked up his gun, handed it over, then turned around and tapped the back of his head. "Consider it payback fer yankin' yer arm outta joint. Just try not tuh crack muh skull open, okay?"

After a long pause, the man known as Scalphunter clubbed Jonah just behind his right ear, and he crumpled to the ground. He then threw the gun aside and ran as fast as he could in the direction he'd sent the runaways. He could hear voices in the clearing behind him, but to his relief, they didn't appear to be pursuing. Despite that, he didn't slow down until he reached the narrow dirt road bordering the wood, where a horse-drawn wagon waited -- a lanky young man in a white slouch hat and duster was fastening down a canvas tarp on the back of the wagon, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when Scalphunter emerged from the trees. "What took you so long? Between the gunshot and your lollygagging, I'd just about written you off as dead," the young man said.

"I'll explain later. Everything all right here?"

"Ask 'em yourself, if you like." He tugged at the canvas and revealed the runaways laying huddled beneath it. "How you folks enjoyin' your accommodations so far?"

"We's fine in here, Mistuh Lash," one of the black men answered, "but we'd feel a lot better if'n we was movin' away from them Rebs."

"Have no fear, now that my partner has stopped draggin' his feet, we can get this show on the road." Bartholomew Aloysius Lash tipped his hat to them, the daisy stuck in the hatband bobbing as he did so, then turned to Scalphunter. "By the by, you know your leg's bleedin'?"

"It'll keep." They checked the canvas one last time before climbing on board the wagon, Lash taking the reins. "If you really thought the soldiers had gotten me, why didn't you take off?"

"Well, there is the slight matter of you not payin' me yet for this little expedition." He snapped the reins to set the horses in motion. "If I'm gonna risk bein' hanged by my fellow Southerners, I'd like to do it with some money in my pockets."

"What happened to that 'better nature' of yours, Bat?"

"It's better when I ain't broke," he quipped. "But enough about me...what happened back there that you ain't dead?"

"I sort of ran into someone I know," Scalphunter said as he wrapped a bandana around his leg wound.

His partner did a double-take. "You're joshin' me! The great Ke-Woh-No-Tay, scourge of the Confederacy, is consortin' with the enemy! Just wait 'til I tell your brother, he'll die of shame."

"Button it, Lash, and keep your eyes on the road."

* * *

_**1863:**_

_...on the first day of January, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred _

_and sixty-three, all persons held as slaves within any State, or designated _

_part of a State, the people whereof shall then be in rebellion against the _

_United States, shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free..._

The dim light given off by the camp lantern made reading difficult, but Jonah made do -- he'd read over the scrap of paper at least ten times now, and had virtually memorized the contents. The repetition helped make what it said a bit more concrete to him.

_...the Executive Government of the United States, including the military _

_and naval authority thereof, will recognize and maintain the freedom of _

_such persons, and will do no act or acts to repress such persons, or any _

_of them, in any efforts they may make for their actual freedom..._

He'd first heard about it not long after his platoon rejoined the rest of the 7th Cavalry. Apparently, President Lincoln had made a proclamation a few days after the battle at Sharpsburg that, if the Confederacy didn't lay down their arms and return to the Union by the New Year, he'd declare every slave in their possession free men and women. Most Southerners laughed it off, saying that he didn't have an ounce of authority over them. But when the grace period expired, the rail-splitter went and done it anyways. Copies of it were printed in most of the Southern papers, along with editorials declaring it to be nothing more than a abolitionist ploy to win sympathy from the governments overseas.

_...And I hereby enjoin upon the people so declared to be free to abstain from _

_all violence, unless in necessary self-defense; and I recommend to them that, _

_in all cases where allowed, they labor faithfully for reasonable wages..._

He wondered if the proclamation had been what Scalphunter tried to tell him about that night in the woods. More than likely, he figured, though he wasn't sure what he would have done at the time if the man had told him -- then as now, Hex was a lieutenant, with soldiers in his care. What Lincoln had done didn't change that fact...but it did make justifying his personal feelings with his military career a mite harder.

_...And upon this act, sincerely believed to be an act of justice, warranted _

_by the Constitution upon military necessity, I invoke the considerate _

_judgment of mankind and the gracious favor of Almighty God..._

Jonah had spent many a night since then mulling over the predicament -- he believed in a man's right to live the sort of life he wanted, but not at the expense of depriving others of that same right. In siding with the South and its tradition of slavery, he'd become a hypocrite. And now that the North had stated so clearly that it was fighting for both the preservation of the Union and the freedom of every Negro within the Confederacy, his continued opposition of them complicated matters even more. In the two weeks since the proclamation had gone into effect, Hex had gone about his duties same as before, leading his men from one battle to the next as if nothing had changed. Just that afternoon, their company had gone up against Federal forces -- their ranks had been split in the fight, and the platoons led by himself and Jeb had become separated from the rest of the troops. They'd made camp together for the night near a marsh not far from the battlefield, rationing out their mutual supplies and getting some much-needed rest. For Hex, however, there seemed to be no rest, not so long as the problem lay before him. So he sat in his tent, straining his eyes to read the words on the paper though he already knew what they said.

Footsteps outside the tent, then a rustling of the flap, and Jeb's head poked inside. "Evening," he said, "you get anything to eat yet?"

"Kind of slipped muh mind," Jonah answered.

"Thought so...here you go." He ducked into the tent proper and handed his friend a tin plate of beans and cornbread, an identical plate in his other hand. Jonah tucked the paper beneath his bedroll and started eating as Jeb sat down across from him. "Did a head count: we've got thirty-five men out there, with seven of them injured but nothing urgent. Ammunition looks good, and food..." He smirked and hoisted a forkful of beans. "Well, it's edible, but that's about it."

"Ain't nothin' new there. How's the lay of the land?"

"Free and clear. No Yankees about, but none of our guys either. Maybe things will look different in the morning." Hex nodded, and they ate in silence for a while. When Jeb finished his meal, he set aside his plate, rolled a smoke, and said, "So, what's on that paper you keep sneaking by me?" Jonah didn't answer right away, just kept mushing the remains of his cornbread into his beans, then finally pulled out the paper in question and handed it over. After giving it a glance, Jeb cocked an eyebrow and said, "I don't understand."

"Ain't an easy thing tuh understand...leastways it ain't an easy thing fer me tuh talk about."

"Well, give it a go, because you've really got me puzzled."

"Lend me some tobaccy," he said. Jeb passed the pouch over, and Jonah took his time fixing up a cigarette before answering his friend. "When Ah got into this war, it was with the best of intentions. Ah felt the cause was right, but Ah also felt the cause only involved us an' the Yankees. It don't, an' Ah feel a damn fool thet it took me so long tuh see things fer whut they is." He took a long drag on his smoke. "Afore Ah met yuh...Hell, afore Ah met Cassie, even...Ah went through some rough times, livin' with the Apache an' bein' looked upon as nothin' more than somebody's property. Ah spent two miserable years on muh knees, an' Ah got me a healthy amount of scars tuh go with it. Ah wouldn't wish thet sort of life on nobody, white or colored or whutever...but if'n Ah go on fightin' fer the Confederacy, thet's whut Ah'm doin', an' Ah cain't in good conscience do thet."

Jeb stared at him. "Jonah, you make it sound like you were a slave or something..."

"Don't have tuh be a Negro tuh be a slave."

"This is a joke, and a damn sick one, at that."

"Yuh know Ah ain't one fer makin' jokes, Jeb. It's the truth, every word of it. Ah've been a slave, an' Ah've been a free man, an' Ah kin rightly say thet Ah prefer the latter. Reckon all them Negroes down here would probably prefer the same as muhself, so am Ah tuh keep 'em from it?"

"But they're _supposed_ to be slaves, that's what Negroes are _for..._you keep talking about them like they're regular folks like us."

Just like that, Jonah felt a gulf open up between the two of them. He thought the difficult part of the conversation would be telling Jeb about the abuses he'd suffered all those years ago -- he'd never imagined that his friend wouldn't be able to comprehend the notion of free blacks. In retrospect, it made sense: unlike Jonah, Jeb had spent his entire life lording over a plantation full of slaves, judging them in the same fashion as he would cattle or horses. They were never people to him, just property. "Ah wish Ah could make yuh see things from muh end, Jeb," Jonah told his friend, "just fer a minute."

"And I wish you'd quit talking so foolishly. You're beginning to sound like an abolitionist."

"Maybe they're right, though: maybe we've been fightin' tuh preserve a life down here thet's better off dead an' gone." Jeb paled at the words, but Jonah went on anyways. "Ah've been wrestling with this fer longer than yuh know, an' it ain't been easy. Ah cain't keep on fightin' fer something Ah don't believe in, but Ah cain't turn 'round an' fight against muh fellow Southerners neither. Ah've thought 'bout just tossin' muh guns away an' headin' back West, but the war's creepin' up out there too, an' if'n Ah get caught, they could hang me fer desertion. The only compromise Ah kin see is tuh surrender muhself tuh the Yankees an' wait out the whole mess as a prisoner of war."

"There's got to be another way. Let me write to my father, maybe he can get you transferred to a position off the front lines..._anything _has to be better than this."

Jonah shook his head. "Ah don't want any more part in this, Jeb. Please, don't make it any harder on me than it already is."

"All right...all right, I'll let you go, but where are you going? There's no Yankees nearby..."

"There's a Federal camp 'bout thirty miles north of here, a place called Fort Charlotte. Reckon once it's dark, Ah'll mount up an' ride on out there. Probably won't stay there, but it's the first step." Hex flicked the butt of his smoke onto his plate. "When daylight comes, yuh take the boys an' find the rest of the regiment. When they ask where Ah am, tell 'em Ah went scoutin' or something an' never came back."

"All right," Jeb repeated, then covered his face with his hands. "Good Lord, I can't believe this is happening...one of the best damn soldiers we've got is up and quitting!"

"Don't sell yerself short like thet, Jeb, 'specially now. These boys is gonna need yuh."

Jeb agreed, but that still didn't make it easy. When full dark came, he tried one last time to talk Jonah out of it, but the man wouldn't budge. "Can you at least promise me that when this is all over, you'll come back to Richmond?" Jeb asked as they stood at the edge of camp, Hex checking the saddle on his horse. "I don't fully understand why you're doing this, but I still consider you a good friend."

"Ah consider yuh the same, an' Ah will." The two of them shook hands, Jonah saying, "Y'all treated me like a brother, an' Ah ain't never gonna forget thet." He mounted his horse and tipped his hat to Jeb. "Good luck, Lieutenant Turnbull."

Jeb returned the gesture. "Same to you, Lieutenant Hex." He stood beneath a winter-bare tree as his friend rode away into the night, wondering how long he'd have to wait before they crossed paths once again.


	5. Part 4: When Jonah Comes Marching Home

**PART 4: WHEN JONAH COMES MARCHING HOME**

_**1863:**_

Captain Bates hadn't been asleep more than a few hours when there was a knock on the door to his quarters. He tried to ignore it, pulling the quilt over his head, but whomever was making that racket wouldn't let up. "For God's sake," he growled, "can't you morons do anything by yourselves around here?" The captain had been in charge of Fort Charlotte since the death of the former C.O. a month before, and he soon realized that running this hellhole was possibly the worst job a soldier could get. Calling it a fort was almost a joke: a ramshackle collection of buildings surrounded by high walls made of split logs, Fort Charlotte had been hastily built by the Union forces when it began to gain a foothold in the area. Unfortunately, as often happens in war, the battlefields slowly moved away from there, but the encampment remained. As a result, the Federals simply didn't have the means to keep the place up to snuff like the posts closer to the fighting (and therefore the Union supply lines) so the troops still stationed there were virtually on their own. This made things especially hard on the captain, who soon found that, just as the fort got the worst in supplies, it also got some of the least-disciplined men in the whole Army. Within the first week, Captain Bates decided that someone in Washington must truly hate him.

The knocking continued. Conceding defeat, the captain tossed back the covers and, clad in nothing but a nightshirt, he yanked open the door leading out to the compound. A few choice curses were about to fly from his lips at whomever dared to interrupt what little rest he got around here when he realized that the man before him was wearing Confederate gray. The captain clutched at his chest, his eyes wide, and gasped, "Good Lord, we've been overrun."

"You all right, sir?" the Yankee private standing beside the Rebel asked, then looked at the "invader", saying, "Told you wakin' him up was a bad idea."

Bates gawked at the two of them for a moment. "W-what's going on around here? I didn't hear any shots...how many are inside the fort?"

"Just him, sir. He done rode right up to the front gate an' asked to see the commanding officer. Said he was surrendering."

"Thet's right, sir...Lt. Jonah Hex, 7th Virginia Cavalry," the Confederate soldier added, snapping off a salute as he did so. "Figured it weren't right tuh turn muhself over tuh yer subordinates, so Ah requested thet they bring me tuh y'all." He gave the captain a quick once-over. "Sorry Ah didn't give yuh more warnin'."

The private stifled a laugh, and Bates glared at him. He then noticed that many of the soldiers walking the perimeter that night were looking in his direction, and some of them weren't as subdued as the private before him. "If you two could give me a moment?" the captain said, then shut the door. When it reopened a few minutes later, he stepped out into the compound fully dressed, though a button or two had been missed in his haste. Doing to his best to recover his dignity, he turned to the Reb and said, "Now then, Lieutenant...Hex, was it? I believe you said you wish to surrender."

Hex nodded, and removed both the sidearm and officer's sword from his belt, handing them over to the captain. He then took a step back, placed his hat over his chest in a submissive gesture, and said with a note of reluctance, "Ah'm at yer mercy, sir...an' Ah hope yuh'll remember thet Ah came here of muh own free will."

"Of course...though exactly _why_ you did is a bit of a puzzler to me. I've heard about you boys in the 7th -- you fight like hellcats. You don't strike me as someone who'd give up so easily."

"Ah've got muh reasons." The man's tone of voice didn't invite discussion.

"And what of the others in your unit? Can I expect any of them to come knocking on my door as well?" The captain smirked. "Or perhaps you'd be willing to point me their direction so I can beat them to it?"

Hex's gaze went as cold as his voice. "Sir, Ah may be willin' tuh turn muhself in, but Ah ain't about tuh betray muh friends, no matter whut Ah may think of this damn war."

"A man of principles, eh? Not surprising: you Southern boys are nothing if not stubborn." He looked to the private, saying, "Lock him up for the night. When morning comes, we'll figure out what to do with him." With a nod, the soldier did as he was ordered and led Hex away. Trying to ignore the stares still coming from the guards on the perimeter, the captain returned to his quarters. _Hell of a night,_ he thought as he laid down the Confederate's weapons -- they'd make fine souvenirs when this whole mess was over with -- and began to remove his uniform. He'd just finished pulling off his boots when someone knocked on his door once again. Cursing, he threw his uniform jacket back on and answered the door barefoot. "Now what?" he snapped at the sergeant before him.

"Sorry, sir, but we may have found something that'll help us track down that Reb's regiment." He stepped aside, revealing a colored man standing behind him -- since the Proclamation went into effect two weeks before, more than a few Negroes had shown up on their doorstep, asking to be taken in. Bates, while a Northerner, couldn't abide colored folk, and managed to ship off most of them to encampments that could spare the rations to feed them, but some that displayed useful skills were allowed to remain at Fort Charlotte, performing the same menial tasks as "free men" that they spent their whole lives doing as slaves. The sergeant grabbed the man by the arm and yanked him forward, saying, "Tell him."

The former slave cast his eyes to the ground as he said, "I was bunkin' out over by the corral when that johnny-reb came in, so's they brung me that hoss he rode in on. They said, 'Strip the saddle an' rub 'im down,' so's I did that..."

"Is there a damn point to this?" Bates snapped.

The colored man flinched, but managed to continue. "I was cleanin' off the hoss's hooves, suh, an' I saw a lot of red clay mashed in 'tween the shoes an' splashed up the legs. That Reb had rode through a mess of it, an' recent too. I don't know how it is up North, suh, but red clay's pretty common down South...'cept 'round these parts. Nearest place I can figure for him tuh have rode through tuh get so much on his hoss is Henderson Plateau. That's a marshy patch of land less'n thirty miles south of here, suh."

The captain's expression brightened -- there had been a skirmish not far from there yesterday. "Are you suggesting that he and his men might have been camped out around there?"

"It's possible, suh, that's why I told the sergeant 'bout it."

"With your permission, sir," the sergeant said, "I'd like to take some men out that way under cover of darkness. If we're lucky, they might still be in the area, and we'll able to get the jump on them before they even know we're there."

"Granted." Bates started to grin. "Seems only fair that we rouse them out of bed as well."

* * *

_Don't seem tuh matter which side yo're fightin' on, _Jonah thought as he looked at the sorry excuse for breakfast before him,_ neither one of us is exactly eatin' like kings. _He was sitting on a crate outside the building the Union boys used for their mess hall, trying to choke down a bowlful of some sort of boiled grain -- the guard who gave it to him called it "bully soup," and Jonah hoped that the godawful mush wasn't standard camp fare. He really didn't have much appetite anyways, being too tired to think about eating. While they'd provided him with a place to bunk down the night before, he'd laid awake most of the time, thinking of what might happen to him now. He'd heard a lot a things about the prisoner of war camps, both Union and Confederate, and none of them pleasant. Of course, it was a bit late to be having second thoughts now, so he'd just have to stick it out no matter what.

If nothing else, his short time in Fort Charlotte so far was proving educational. Though he was under constant watch by an armed guard, he was given the freedom to move around the compound, and he'd quickly noticed the Negroes working here and there. He also noticed that the majority of these billy-yanks had no qualms about talking just as harshly to them as any Southern overseer would. One soldier even went so far as to strike a colored woman across the face for some unknown offense -- the sight of that made Hex tense up, and it was an effort to hold himself in check and not run over to belt the Yankee in return. _Ain't it funny,_ he said to himself, _thet the same damn folks whut is fightin' tuh free these folk kin be just as cruel as us Southerners is said tuh be. Makes yuh wonder just how free they's really gonna be if'n the North wins._ Those sort of things, however, were no longer his concern: he'd taken himself out of the fight, and it was now up to the thousands of other soldiers slogging through the endless battles to decide the collective fate of the Negro in America.

Hex was about to give up on eating when he saw Captain Bates walking his way, a smile on his face and two tin cups in his hands. "Take a break, Corporal," he said to the guard, "I want to speak to the lieutenant in private." The guard ducked into the mess hall, and Bates handed Jonah one of the cups. "Here, this'll make that slop go down easier."

Jonah took a sip, then pulled the cup away, staring at it. "This is coffee..._real_ coffee..." He and his men had drank nothing but chicory during the whole war, and there was no mistaking one for the other. "Damn, Ah think Ah'm gonna enjoy bein' a prisoner," he said.

"Don't get too used to it," Bates replied. "This is from my own personal stash, and it cost me dear to get it." He took a sip from his own cup. "But I figured I could spare a little for a fellow officer...especially one that's helped out the Union in such a big way." His smile got a bit wider.

Hex gave the man a sideways glance as he drank his coffee -- what in tarnation was _that _supposed to mean? He then heard a commotion from the direction of the front gates. "Well, I wonder what that could be...shall we go have a look?" the captain said, and slipped a hand under Hex's armpit and pulled him to his feet. The two of them walked across the compound, nearly arm-in-arm, until the gates came into view. The sight before them made Jonah gawk: both his and Jeb's platoons were being marched into the fort, many of them barefoot or missing parts of their uniform -- they hadn't even the time to get fully dressed before the enemy had swooped down upon their camp. The mounted Federals surrounding them took swipes at the unarmed men with their rifle butts or the flat of their cavalry swords as they herded them through the gate like sheep.

A Union officer rode up beside the two of them, grinning just as much as Bates was. "It worked, sir! We managed to round up the whole lot of them without firing a shot!"

"Good work, Sergeant. Of course, I can't give you all the credit." The captain then turned to Hex, saying in a loud voice, "I really must thank you, Lieutenant. If it wasn't for you, we never would have even known about all you Rebs hiding out there in the marsh. You've done a great service to the Union, and I'll see that you're aptly rewarded."

"Yuh two-faced sonovabitch," Hex growled, "Ah didn't do a damn thing fer yuh!" He shook loose from the captain's grip and made to strike him, but the sergeant intervened, pointing the barrel of his rifle directly at Jonah's face. He backed up, glaring at the two Federals, and suddenly found himself grabbed from behind by his own men.

"Goddam traitor!" one of them yelled, and punched Jonah in the stomach. Another struck him from behind, and a third blow skirted across his jaw, all the while men screamed at him, spat on him. Hex fought back, of course, fists connecting with whomever dared come near him -- he had the advantage of a few hours rest, while the other soldiers had spent hours in a forced march, but he was soon overwhelmed by sheer numbers and fell to the ground. That didn't discourage the men from taking out their frustrations on him, kicking and pummeling and not giving a damn that they were willing to follow Hex into battle barely a day before. He was no longer a superior officer to them, no longer a countryman...he was a turncoat, a Yankee boot-licker, and they weren't about to let him get away with his betrayal.

The Union men broke it up after a few minutes, forcing the angry Rebs off of him. They continued to hurl epithets at Jonah as he lay there, his uniform torn and blood dripping from his nose and mouth. Captain Bates came over to him and knelt down, the smile on his face now quite humorless. "That's what you get for embarrassing me in front of my own men, you stinking grayback," he whispered, then stood up and said to the sergeant, "Let's get these men under lock and key -- there's an empty barracks on the east side of the compound that'll work just fine for that. As for our dear lieutenant...make sure he gets the finest accommodations we have to offer."

As the Confederates were moved to their new quarters, two Yankees dragged Hex to an old storage shed not much bigger than an outhouse -- it had been used in the past as solitary confinement for unruly soldiers, and the captain felt it would serve just fine to hold Jonah until they could transfer him and the others to a proper prisoner of war camp. They tossed him in like he was a sack of potatoes, and Hex landed with all the grace of one. "Hey, don't forget your hat, johnny!" one of the soldiers cackled, and threw it in his face before shutting the door and latching it tight.

Slowly, Jonah pushed himself up to a sitting position -- every inch of his body was wracked with pain, but worst of all was the pain in his mind. He'd come to Fort Charlotte in the hopes that he could do the honorable thing, and it had all blown up in his face. It was bad enough to discover that the Yankee soldiers cared as little about the promises Lincoln made in the Proclamation as his fellow Southerners did, but the notion that his surrender might have inadvertently caused his men to be captured was something he didn't wish to linger on. _How the Hell did Ah manage tuh get muhself into such a mess? _he thought. _There's got tuh be a way tuh fix this, but damned if Ah know whut it is._ He wrapped a moth-eaten blanket around his shoulders to shield himself from the cold and leaned back against the wall. There was nothing he could do now but wait and hope a solution would present it self.

Hours passed, and Jonah fell into a sort of half-sleep as exhaustion began to overtake him. His mind drifted to places far from the battlefield, all the way back to the West -- it seemed like another life now. Somewhere between a dream and a memory, he rode his horse across wide open plains, under skies unclouded by gunsmoke. The wind blowing past him smelled fresh, not tainted by blood and sweat. He turned his face up to the sun and felt its warmth, and he began to reach a hand up towards it, as if he could pluck it out of the sky and keep it in his pocket...

Then there was pain, a gnawing pain in his fingers. He jerked awake, back to the reality of imprisonment, and saw a rat beside his hand resting on the ground -- it was nibbling at the tips of his fingers. With a grunt, he took a swipe at the rat, and it backed up, staring at him with beady eyes. "Beat it!" he said, and tried to kick the pest. It finally took the hint and scurried away to the back wall of the shed and slipped though with no hesitation. To Jonah, it didn't look like there was enough room to do such a thing, rat or no. Having nothing better to occupy his time, he laid flat against the shed's earthen floor to give it a closer look, expecting to see a gap in the boards making up the wall. Instead, he found that the ground there wasn't hard-packed like in the rest of the shed, making it easy for a little rat to burrow through so it could slip under the wall. In fact, at ground level, he could plainly see the hole the rat's passing had left -- he could also see the perimeter fence not more than two feet away from the shed. Tired and hurting though he was, the wheels in Jonah's head began to turn. _Ain't gonna be easy, _he thought, _but the ground here's so loose, Ah think Ah kin manage tuh dig right underneath this here wall. An' the backside of this is so close tuh the fence, ain't nobody gonna notice whut Ah'm doin' less'n they're standin' right on top of it._ A smile played across his lips. _Thet damn captain thinks he's so smart...wonder how smart he'll feel when he finds out me an' the boys done lit outta here when he wasn't lookin.'_

Jonah had begun to push as much loose earth away from the wall as he could when he heard the latch on the door rattle. He spun around and saw the shadow of a man through the cracks in the boards. Cursing under his breath, he grabbed the blanket and tossed it over the hole just as the guard opened the door, a bowl in his hand. "Suppertime," he said.

"Thanks," Hex mumbled, trying his best to not move from his spot on the floor. The soldier handed the bowl over, hesitating for just a moment before letting go, then stepped back out of the shed. Jonah looked in the bowl and made a face -- more bully soup. _Good thing Ah ain't stickin' 'round,_ he thought as he put the food aside, _a man could starve tuh death in this here place.

* * *

_

"He's doing _what?"_

"He's digging his way out, I swear to God," the guard said as he stood before Captain Bates' desk. "You may not believe it, but we had something like this happen a couple months before you arrived. There was this big fella named Luke...used to get drunk a lot, and he'd get kind of crazy, so we'd toss him in there 'til he got sober. Last time we did, Luke went and dug right under the damn shed so's he could get out, but he was so big, his shoulders got stuck." The soldier paused, laughing. "We found him the next morning chewing on the wall to make more room. After that, we said to Hell with him and shipped him out."

"And what does a ridiculous story like that have to do with our current prisoner?"

The guard stopped laughing. "Um...well, sir, I noticed that he had his blanket wadded up in the same place where Luke had dug out. I mean, we filled in the hole right after, but maybe we didn't do as good a job as we thought."

_That wouldn't be the first time for you men_, Bates silently mused, then said to the guard, "Do you think there's a chance the Reb can get out like that?"

"Well, he's skinner than Luke was...plus he's sober...so he's got better odds. You want me to move him in with the other prisoners to be sure?"

"Of course I want you to..." The captain stopped as he was struck by an idea. "Actually, Corporal, leave him be. In fact, cancel the night watch for both him and the others."

"But, sir, if he gets out, he'll probably head straight for his men and..."

"I know that, and I _want_ him to do so. We have enough problems around this fort that we shouldn't have to deal with feeding and housing a bunch of unruly Rebels. The War Department says we have to, of course, but it also says that we can take necessary action if they try to escape. So, if Lieutenant Hex manages to break himself and his fellow prisoners out...we'd simply have no choice but to shoot them all."

The guard's eyes widened. "Sir, you're talking about a slaughter!"

"This is a _war_, Corporal, and they are the _enemy_. Do you suddenly have a problem with shooting the enemy?" The soldier said nothing, and Bates nodded. "Good. Now let's go and arrange a little surprise for our departing guests."

* * *

Night fell, and Jonah became more zealous in his efforts. Despite the chill in the air, sweat was beading on his brow as he tossed dirt aside, every scoop bringing him a little closer to his goal. Eventually, he made a trench over two feet wide and nearly twice as long, extending under the shed wall. _Thet should do fine,_ he thought, and decided it was time to try it out. He lay on his back inside the shallow trench, his head pointing at the way out, then braced his hands on the underside of the wall and began to pull himself through. Slowly, he inched his way through the trench, first his head, then his shoulders...then he was stuck, his arms pinned to his chest.

_Not enough room...aw no, Lord, don't let this happen tuh me!_ He kicked his legs, trying to gain leverage against the shed floor, until he popped out like a cork from a bottle. Unfortunately, he also rammed his head against one of the logs making up the perimeter fence -- Jonah lay on his side for a few minutes, doing his best not to groan out loud. Once he stopped seeing stars, he reached back through the hole, grabbed his hat, and began to move through the shadows. The captain had told the Union men to move the prisoners to a barracks on the east end, but Hex had no idea which building that was, and he really wasn't in a position to just poke his head through every door. Carefully, he made his way across the compound, until he found a long, windowless building with a wooden bar bracing the entrance on the outside. It seemed the most likely place he'd come across so far, but he was surprised to find no guard. In fact, he hadn't spotted a single Yankee the entire time. Shrugging it off as dumb luck, Jonah knelt down beside the door for a moment to listen -- though muffled, he recognized the voices within as belonging to his men. _Alright, Jonah boy, _he thought as he began to lift the bar,_ time tuh straighten this mess out._

To their credit, the Rebs didn't jump on top of Hex the second they saw him, but the tension in the room certainly went way up. Every man looked haggard, their tattered uniforms not helping the image, and Jonah noticed that even the injured men had been tossed in there -- the Yankees didn't seem to care that they needed medical attention. "What the Hell are _you_ doing in here?" one of the soldiers nearby growled at him. "You decide to stop by and gloat?"

"Maybe he wants a little more of what we gave 'im out in the yard," said another, cracking his knuckles and advancing on Hex. "An' I'll be happy to oblige 'im."

"That's enough, Rufe." Jeb stepped forward and laid a hand on the man's shoulder to restrain him. "Nobody is going to touch him without my say-so." He turned to his friend, and Jonah could see the hurt in his eyes as he said, "Please tell me you've got a good explanation for this."

"Ah wish Ah had one. Truth tuh tell, Ah ain't got the foggiest notion how they found yuh. Ah swear on Cassie's grave, Ah didn't tell these cussed bluebellies anything more'n muh name an' rank." He looked past Jeb to the other men. "Ah ain't no traitor, despite how things look. Hell, Ah didn't even know y'all was bein' brought in 'til they marched yuh on through the gate."

"Bullshit!" a man near the back yelled. "You an' that Yankee captain was practically holdin' hands when we came in!" A chorus of voices rose up in agreement.

"Button it, all of ya!" Jeb ordered. "If Jonah says he didn't sell us out, then I believe him."

"Fat lot of good that does us," Rufe muttered, "we're still stuck in here."

"No yuh ain't. We's breakin' out of here, right this minute." The Rebs stared at Hex as he said, "Ah dug muh way outta where they was holdin' me, an' Ah crossed over half this compound all by muh lonesome, without so much as one Yank jumpin' out tuh say boo." He jerked a thumb at the closed door behind him. "These idiots ain't even got a guard on duty out here! All's we have tuh do is get through the fence, an' we're home free!"

A murmur of disbelief ran though the men -- it couldn't be _that_ easy, could it? -- but Jonah soon swayed them. The two lieutenants split them into groups of five, each containing one of the wounded men so none would be left behind, then they headed out across the compound to the perimeter fence. Jonah led the first group to an area he'd noticed while looking for the barracks: a few of the wall's split logs had begun to rot, and the Union soldiers had made a poor attempt at patching up the damage with boards and nails. "Grab hold an' pull like Hell," Jonah told the men, "while Ah go get the next group." He retraced his steps, ducking from the shadow of one building to the next, until the others came into view -- he waved them over and led them to the same spot, then began the process all over again. By the time the third group made it over, the men had worked most of the boards free, and they squeezed through the narrow opening one at a time.

Finally, the last group made the journey, Jeb taking up the rear. Once all the enlisted men were safely on the other side, the two lieutenants passed through the gap in the fence themselves. Beyond it lay an open field with a line of trees in the distance -- the Rebels were making a beeline for it as quickly as they could. "We're not in the clear yet," Jeb said to his friend as they began to run towards the woods. "We still have to find our regiment."

"We will," Hex replied, "but the important thing right now is thet we..." His words were cut off as a bell sounded out in the fort behind them. He stopped and turned towards it, seeing a Union man in a lookout tower ringing away. _Where in the blue Hell did he come from?_ Jonah thought -- the whole time, he'd kept an eye on the towers, and there hadn't been any soldiers in sight. Even worse than the bell were the words the Yankee was calling out:

"_Here they come! Open fire!"_

All around them, the night lit up with muzzle flashes, followed by the deadly din on gunfire. The Southern boys closest to the woods were hit first, twisting in mid-stride and falling to the ground as the Yankees hidden there unloaded on them. Along the walls of Fort Charlotte, riflemen popped up and took care of those still near the fence -- Hex threw himself to the ground, bullets whizzing past his head. Not far away, another soldier saw him laying there and temporarily forgot their peril, yelling, "You bastard, you set us up! I'm gonna..." He never got to finish his threat: one of the riflemen had zeroed in on his voice and sent a ball of lead through his skull.

_Gotta keep movin', _he thought. Slowly, he began to crawl along the ground in the direction of the trees, past the bodies of fallen comrades, some of whom were still alive and screaming. One of the screams sounded too familiar to ignore, and he turned towards it to find Jeb curled in a fetal position only a few feet away. Hex scrambled over to his side, not caring if he attracted attention to himself. The young man had caught a bullet in the stomach, and the front of his uniform looked black in the moonlight. "No," Jonah gasped as he knelt in the grass and lifted his friend's trembling body into his arms. "Please, Lord, no, not him..."

"Why...why..." Jeb asked weakly, tears in his eyes.

"It ain't muh fault, Ah swear tuh God Almighty it ain't. Tell me yuh believe me...please..." But his friend just kept on asking "Why?" It seemed all he was capable of saying.

The gunshots died down, the intervals between becoming longer as the targets became fewer, but Jonah paid little attention to them -- his focus was on Jeb, on the blood seeping from between his friend's lips and rolling down his chin. It wasn't until he heard the sound of horses that he lifted his head and saw Captain Bates before him, sitting tall in the saddle beside three other cavalrymen. "Once again, I have you to thank, Lieutenant," Bates said to him as they dismounted. "Because of your escape attempt, the Federals now have three dozen less prisoners to worry about, and yet I still get the credit for capturing all of them. Of course, I wouldn't dream of not giving you a proper reward for your assistance in all this." He smiled and drew his sidearm.

From somewhere deep within Hex, a growl rose up, a purely animalistic noise unlike anything they'd ever heard before. He let go of Jeb, then leapt up and grabbed the captain's gun hand with his right, pointing it at the ground as he slid neatly behind him, his left arm wrapping around the Union officer's throat. The other soldiers raised their weapons, but before they could do anything more, Hex forced the pistol up and took aim, his own nimble fingers pushing the captain's aside as he cocked and fired three times -- all the bullets struck home, and the cavalrymen fell to the earth.

"Oh, dear God," Bates moaned. The speed at which Hex had moved didn't seem humanly possible, but the proof was laying at his feet. The gunshots had caught the attention of the other soldiers, but they were too far away, and the Confederate still had him in his grip. "Please, I'm begging you, don't kill me."

Jonah leaned close to the captain's ear -- the way he was holding the man from behind, they looked like lovers performing a particularly salacious dance move. "Reckon thet depends."

"D-depends on what?"

He moved the gun, still held within their mutual grip, towards Bates' stomach and jammed the barrel into the man's crotch. "On whether or not yuh bleed tuh death."

Bates started howling before Hex even pulled the trigger, and it only got worse afterward. The Rebel let him drop to the ground, then grabbed one of the horses and propped Jeb up on it before climbing into the saddle himself. The Union soldiers were within firing range now, and let out a barrage as the two of them rode away at top speed towards the woods. Jonah felt a bullet slam into his shoulder, but he paid it no mind as they galloped past trees and jumped deadfalls. Jeb sat in front of him, his head sagging to his chest, and Jonah had to keep an arm wrapped tightly around him so he'd stay upright. "C'mon, cousin, stay with me," Jonah said, "we're gonna get outta this, yuh'll see, just _hold on_."

On they rode, darkness fading to gray winter dawn. By that time, Jonah had come across a dirt road, and he'd decided to risk following it, as they'd lost sight of the Federals hours before. The horse, nearing the point of exhaustion, moved at a slow, staggering pace down the road, and Jonah himself struggled to stay conscious -- he occasionally managed a word or two of encouragement for Jeb, but even that soon tapered off to nothing. Not long after the sun had fully risen, however, Jonah beheld a glorious sight: a band of Confederates on the march towards them. "Look, Jeb," he croaked, jostling his friend a bit, "we're gonna be alright." Jeb didn't respond, just as he hadn't all the other times Hex had spoken on their journey.

Jonah somehow managed to salute when one of the officers came into view. Unfortunately, that act seemed to drain the last of his strength, and he began to slide out of the saddle, pulling his friend with him. Some of the enlisted men rushed forward to help as they hit the ground -- one of the soldiers propped Jonah up in the middle of the road, but he tried to push the man away, saying, "Jeb...take care of Jeb...he needs a doctor..."

"If Jeb's the other fella, he ain't gonna need no doctor," he replied. "He's stone dead."

"No...no, he's not...he's just tired, thet's all..." As he said the words, he reached over to his friend, laying on the ground just a few feet away, and shook his arm. "Wake up, Jeb...show these fellas yo're alright..." But Jeb continued to lay there, his face like alabaster and eyes rolled up to the whites. After a few moments, the truth began to sink in, and he let his hand drop away. Deep down, Jonah felt like he should be screaming, railing at the injustice of his friend's death, of yet another person he cared about being taken from him for no good reason. But outwardly, he was as quiet and unmoving as Jeb's corpse, unable to even find the strength to weep.

* * *

When questioned later about what happened to his platoon, Hex would only say that they had been captured, then killed during an escape attempt. He never made mention of trying to surrender, or that he may have been responsible for their capture -- better to let that horrible mistake be buried along with all those poor men. If anything, the massacre at Fort Charlotte had shown Jonah how wrong he'd been in thinking that perhaps the North had the better intentions. There were no good guys in this war, no room for altruistic actions or notions of honor, just thousands of men on either side butchering each other, and gallons of blood being spilled on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. No matter who won, Jonah realized, nothing would change: the dead would still be dead, the Negro would still be under the thumb of the white man, and both North and South would still each hold the other in the lowest regard.

Despite these revelations, he fought on. After being reunited with his regiment, he went right back into battle, fighting with even more abandon than he'd shown before, taking risks that would make other men quail at the thought of them. The majority of Hex's fellow soldiers in the 7th thought his new attitude was due to the nightmare he'd survived, and that he now fought purely to avenge the deaths of those who fell at Fort Charlotte. They were partly right: in his conscious mind, he did indeed push himself harder to make up for the thirty-six men who could no longer fight...

...but unconsciously, in a corner of his soul he refused to admit existed, Jonah hoped that he would one day come across a Yankee soldier who was a mite faster on the draw than him, just so he wouldn't have to face the pain of living anymore.

* * *

_**1865:**_

Hunkered down inside an abandoned farmhouse, Lieutenant Hex and five others from the 7th Cavalry traded shots with a group of Union soldiers outside. They'd been on the run from the Yankees for over two weeks, ever since a third of General Lee's forces fell into enemy hands at Sayler's Creek. The remains of the Army of Northern Virginia retreated to the west, but soon found themselves hemmed in once again -- despite the odds, a handful of boys from the 7th somehow managed to slip past the opposing forces and hide in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, taking out any billy-yanks that dared follow them. That afternoon, however, their luck appeared to have run out, as was their ammunition.

"I'm busted!" A corporal by the name of Eddie Cantwell, who'd been with the 7th almost as long as Hex, scrambled away from his firing position by the front door. "Anybody got a spare iron?"

"Ain't nothin' left tuh spare," Hex replied as he fired his own weapon out a nearby window. "Three more shots an' Ah'm dry. We'd best start makin' a run fer it out the back way."

"No good," another Reb answered -- he was helping tie a bandage around a fellow soldier's arm. "We already checked, an' they've got men coverin' it. That's how they got Dominic here."

A barrage of gunfire caused everyone to hit the floor -- what little glass was left in the windows rained down on them. Jonah looked from one man to the next, saying, "Then Ah reckon y'all better start prayin', if'n yo're so inclined." The men gathered blanched at the words. They'd survived four long, hard years of war, and had watched more people die than they cared to think about. Could this really be the end for them? Once Hex fired the last bullet from his gun, they waited for the inevitable.

But nothing happened -- not long after they stopped shooting, so had the Yankees. Cantwell risked a peek over the windowsill, but he couldn't see anything. "The Hell they waitin' for? Did they run outta ammo, too?"

Then a voice came from the direction of a barn on the far end of the yard: "Hey, johnnies! Any of ye still breathin' in there?"

"More'n enough to handle you empty-headed sons of bitches!" Cantwell yelled back -- with the possibility of death so close, he figured one last spark of defiance couldn't hurt.

The unseen Federal paid the insult no mind and continued, "Why don't y'boys give it up already? The war's over, and ye lost! The sooner ye face up to that, the sooner things can get back to normal around 'ere!"

Cantwell was about to hurl another, more colorful epithet out the window, but Jonah stopped him, asking the Federal, "Wait just a minute...did yuh say _the war's_ _over?"_

"Damn straight. Lee surrendered to Grant o'er in Appomattox -- ye been fightin' a lost cause since Palm Sunday."

Within the farmhouse, all the soldiers fell silent, staring at each other in disbelief. Marse Robert _surrendered?!?_ Everyone in the Confederate Army figured the Yankees would have to kill him a thousand times over before he gave up. "Y'all got any proof of thet on yuh?" Hex asked.

"'Fraid not, son, ye just gonna have to take me at my word."

"He's bluffing!" Cantwell hissed. "They just want us to stick our heads out the door so's they can blow 'em off!" A couple others nodded in assent.

Jonah hung his head low for a moment, thinking, then looked back up at the starving, exhausted, disheveled troops before him -- as the highest-ranking officer present, these men were his responsibility, and he certainly wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. "If'n we give up," he told them, "it's got tuh be unanimous. Either we all walk outta here an' surrender as one, or we all stay in here an' die as one. So...whut's it gonna be?"

It took them almost twenty minutes to reach a decision. When they did, Hex called out to the Yankees that they were surrendering, then led his men out the front door of the farmhouse. As he did so, a big Irishman with lieutenant stripes of his own came out from behind the barn, followed by a platoon of soldiers. The Rebels eyed the Union men with suspicion, and vice versa, with little wonder: after fighting each other for so long, getting used to peace again was going to be tough.

The Irishman approached them, his revolver at the ready, and Hex tried to not let the tension in his body show. He was waiting for the double-cross, though this time he was a bit more prepared: after the incident at Fort Charlotte, he'd made the decision to never be caught unarmed again, and had carefully attached a knife sheath to the inside lining of his uniform jacket so that it lay between his shoulderblades. As Jonah stood there with his hands behind his head, the fingers of his left hand were creeping down to his collar, ready to grab the knife hiding beneath and drive it into the Yankee's heart if need be. But to his surprise, the other officer flipped the gun back into its holster, stuck out his hand, and said to Hex, "Ye fought good, johnny, but I'm glad 'tis finally o'er."

He stared at the man for a moment, then relaxed his posture and shook hands with him. "Yuh didn't do so bad yerself, billy...though Ah'll admit, Ah wish y'all was surrenderin' tuh me."

Their horses long gone, the defeated cavalrymen set out on foot with their captors for Lynchburg -- the Federals had built a stockade there, and were now using it to process all the Rebels captured in the area. Countless Southerners milled about the grounds, some waiting for word from the C.O. that they were free to return home, others unsure if they even had a home to return to. Once they arrived, Hex and his men were made to sign an oath of loyalty to the Union, swearing to never take up arms against it again. A few Confederates refused to do such a thing, and cries of "_Long live the Cause! Long live Jefferson Davis!_" occasionally sprang up amongst the dissenters. Some of them also crowed about how they hoped Abraham Lincoln was burning in Hell, which took some time for Jonah to understand: not only had they missed the collapse of the Confederacy while hiding in the foothills, but apparently Lincoln had been fatally shot a scant five days after Lee's surrender. When one of the other Rebs told him that the famous actor John Wilkes Booth did the deed, Hex thought for sure the whole thing was a hoax.

After a few days at the stockade, the remaining men of the 7th Virginia Cavalry were finally released on their own recognizance, and for the first time in four years, Hex found himself without a purpose. No men to lead, no enemy to fight...even the uniform he wore ceased to have meaning, at least to the world at large -- he still held a measure of pride over the fact that a barely-educated country boy like himself had managed to reach the rank of lieutenant. Eddie Cantwell, on the other hand, had shed what was left of his Rebel-gray togs in favor of civilian clothes the first chance he got. "You really ought to ditch that thing," he told his former superior officer as they walked out the main gate, the road beyond leading to Lynchburg proper. "It's probably crawlin' with lice."

"Like Hell Ah will," Jonah snapped. "Ah earned this thing, an' Ah ain't givin' it up just 'cause some sass-talkin' jackass like yerself says Ah should...an' Ah ain't got no lice!"

Cantwell brayed with laughter. "Same old Hex! I can't imagine how you're gonna handle being a civilian again. Myself, I'm gonna bed down with every woman that comes across my path 'til I think of something better to do with my life...an' I hope I never do."

"Them's lofty ambitions. Wish Ah had some tuh match."

"Why don't you travel with me for a spell? Never hurts to have someone watchin' your back, even in peacetime."

Hex shook his head, saying, "No, Ah reckon thet Ah'd like tuh be on muh own fer a while. Been so long since Ah had no one tuh fret over but muhself...it'll be a nice change of pace."

"Suit yourself." The sound of horses came at them from behind, and they saw a supply wagon departing the stockade. Cantwell whistled to the driver and asked for a ride to town, then said to Hex, "Well, I reckon this is good-bye, then. You take care now."

"Ah do muh best," he replied, and tipped his hat as the wagon trundled away, Cantwell waving to him from beside the driver. As they disappeared from sight, Hex considered what the ex-corporal had said: just how _was_ he going to handle being a civilian again? He didn't even know where to start...

Then he remembered the promise he'd made to Jeb the night before he died -- though his friend was gone, it still seemed the proper thing to do. Jonah started walking down the road again, his mind focused on the long journey ahead of him.

* * *

Richmond, Virginia: once the proud capital of the Confederate States of America, now just another Southern city put to the torch by angry Federals. Blackened trees offered no shade to the skeletal houses lining the streets, upon which soldiers in blue strolled as if proud of the destruction they'd wrought. It took Hex some time to get his bearings once he reached the city limits, but enough landmarks remained intact for him to find his way to the Turnbull plantation. The place had fared better than other estates nearby, but that wasn't saying much: with no slaves left to attend to them, the great fields of tobacco surrounding the plantation were little more than acres-wide mudholes, and the house itself, while standing, had taken on a dull gray cast instead of its usual fine whitewash. He stepped up onto the front porch and rang the bell pull, unsure if anyone was even there to answer, but after a minute, a familiar visage appeared before him. "Hello, Solomon," Jonah said, "it's good tuh see yuh again."

The graying houseboy's eyes widened, and he replied in a frantic whisper, "I don't know why you come back here, Mistuh Hex, but you'd best move on afore..."

"Who is it, Solomon?" Turnbull called out from somewhere behind him.

"Just a poor Reb who done got lost, suh." He began to close the door. "I gave him proper directions an' sent him off."

"Nonsense. Who knows how far he's traveled already? Let him inside so he can rest a while before heading out once again." The master of the house caught the edge of the door and pulled it open, but once he saw who was standing there, any sense of hospitality he'd had evaporated. "_You..._how _dare_ you set foot on my property!" he spat at Hex.

Though taken aback by their reaction, Jonah pressed on. "Ah'm sorry tuh just show up like this, Mr. Turnbull, but now thet the war's over, Ah couldn't think of no other place tuh go, an' Ah promised Jeb..."

With a quickness that surprised Hex, Turnbull slapped him across the face, cutting him off mid-sentence. "A traitor like you isn't fit to speak my boy's name," the older man told him evenly, "much less wear that uniform, not after the way you betrayed everything the South stands for." Jonah opened his mouth to object, but Turnbull wouldn't let him, saying, "You thought you'd gotten away with it, didn't you? You thought that every one of those patriots had been cut down outside Fort Charlotte, but you were wrong: a few managed to escape, only to be recaptured later by more of those damn Yankees. Now those prisoners are coming home, and they've been coming to _me_, telling me of your betrayal." He stepped forward, making Jonah backpedal on the porch. "How many pieces of silver did the Union give you for the lives of your men? How much was your loyalty to the Confederacy worth? _How much was my son worth?"_

Jonah's foot hit empty air as he reached the edge of the porch, and he pitched backward, his hat flying away as he landed flat at the bottom of the steps. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he looked up at Turnbull, saying, "Yo're wrong...they've got it all wrong. Please, yuh got tuh believe me. Ah tried tuh save them all, Jeb included, but them Yankees done tricked all of us."

Turnbull wasn't hearing it. "You've brought nothing but death to this family. First my niece Cassie, now Jeb...you're a walking pestilence, and you need to be wiped out." He turned to Solomon, who stood beside him on the porch. "Go fetch my gun," he ordered.

"Mastuh Turnbull, maybe you should let him speak his piece," the servant replied. "Mistuh Hex always seemed like a good man...maybe he's tellin' the truth."

"No, he's not, he's a traitor and a murderer, and I'm not going to let him get away with it. Now do as I say!"

Jonah climbed back to his feet and glared at the man. "Yuh ain't got no right tuh speak tuh Solomon like thet no more: he's a free man now, same as every Negro. As fer yerself...yo're just an old man who's too damn blind from grief tuh see anything but whut y'all want tuh see." He scooped up his hat from the ground and put it back on, running his fingers along the brim with a snap. "No matter whut them fellas told yuh 'bout Fort Charlotte, _Ah ain't no traitor_. Ah loved Jeb like he was muh own brother, an' if'n muh death could bring him back, Ah'd gladly lay it down fer him. _But it won't_, an' Ah sure as Hell ain't gonna stand around here an' let yuh shoot me like dog fer something Ah didn't do." Spinning on his heel, he began to walk back to the road without another word.

"Come back here, damn you!" Turnbull yelled, and started to follow Hex, finally stopping in the middle of the yard, leaning heavily on the eagle-headed cane he'd been given four Christmases ago, before his world had fallen apart. "Don't think this is the end, Jonah Hex!" he called out as the young man made his way down the road, never looking back once. "I swear, if it takes the rest of my life, I'll make you pay for what you've done to my family! And when I do, I'm going to dance on your grave! Do you hear me? _Someday, I'm going to dance on your grave!"

* * *

_

_**1866:**_

The hot summer sun beat down upon Jonah as he rode along the dusty trail, occasionally pulling off his hat to try and wave a cool breeze across his face. His horse wasn't faring much better, but at least he had something to ride. The last thing he wanted to do was take the ankle express across Texas. Not that he was in any big hurry: he'd done more than his share of wandering over the past year, drifting from one town to the next with no destination in mind, only the desire to put as much distance between himself and Quentin Turnbull as possible. After his confrontation with the man on the old plantation, Hex left Richmond behind, and soon Virginia itself as he made his way across the South, taking in the damage the war had wrought and earning his keep doing odd jobs on ranches and farms -- anything to put food in his stomach and a couple dollars in his pocket. By the time winter set in, Jonah had reached the Mississippi, and with it the inevitable question: should he stay in the South, or cross the river and head back to the West? The decision came to him surprisingly easy, and he spent New Year's in a Louisiana shanty town on the western bank of Ole Miss.

It wasn't long after that he found himself brushing up against his home state, though it seemed strange to call it such, seeing as how he hadn't set foot in it for over a decade. Nevertheless, he continued on his westward path, with no more concrete plans in his mind than when he first started his journey. But on that scorching summer's day, his wanderings had unknowingly brought him into familiar territory: the trail before him eventually branched off in two directions, with a sand-blasted signpost between them. Many of wooden markers nailed to it were nearly illegible due to abuse from the elements, and as Jonah sat on his mount trying to decipher them, one in particular jumped out at him:

_**HAVERVILLE - 5 MILES**_

_Well, Ah'll be damned...Ah never thought Ah'd end up back here._ He looked off in the direction the sign pointed -- a few buildings were visible through the haze in the air. It had been fifteen long years since his Pa had taken him away from Haverville and sold him to the Apache, and in that time, he'd thought of the place very little -- there was never any longing to see it again, not after the way the townsfolk had treated Jonah and his parents when they lived there. But now that it lay so close, curiosity was taking hold of him: he'd changed so much since he last walked those streets, he wondered what changes had come to the town itself. "Only one way tuh find out," he said aloud, and turned his mount down the right fork.

To his surprise, Haverville looked relatively the same -- aside from some new buildings on the outskirts, the town appeared to have been frozen in time. As he rode down the main street, the people he passed barely gave him a second look, which wasn't surprising: he doubted that anyone remembered him, or even cared to. When he passed an alleyway near the town bank, he slowed his horse and lingered for a moment. In his mind's eye, he could see his young self and Bart Mallory standing there, the man tousling Jonah's hair and telling him he was a natural with a gun. The thought that he'd once admired that outlaw pained him -- for all his charisma, Mallory had still been a cold-blooded killer and thief -- folks like that were the reason Cassie was dead. _Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all,_ Hex thought, and spurred his horse on towards the old dirt road that led to his childhood home.

As he neared it, he saw that, unlike the town, time had taken its toll on the homeplace: the roof of the shack sagged inward, with a gaping hole right in the middle of it, and the stable at the edge of the yard had collapsed completely, the ruins mostly covered by buffalo grass. Hex stopped short at the remains of the fence surrounding the property, gazing upon the place from a distance. Despite its dilapidated appearance, the sight it made his stomach flutter -- he half-expected his father to come storming out the front door, drunk as a skunk and screaming at him for letting the house get in such a state, then taking off his belt and wrapping the end of it around his fist...

Jonah shook his head with a grunt -- after everything he'd been through, the thought of his Pa could still make him cringe sometimes. For the first time in years, he wondered whatever happened to his father and mother, and if they ever thought of him. Did they ever regret abandoning him, or did they simply pretend that they never had a son? "Don't matter either way," he muttered, "they's long gone, an' they ain't never comin' back." Hex raised his voice and yelled at the shack, "Matter of fact, Ah'm damn glad y'all done run off! Y'all was too wrapped up in yerselves tuh care 'bout me anyways! But Ah turned out just fine despite yuh...see?" His fingers plucked at the fabric of his officer's coat. "Ah went out into the world an' made something of muhself, an' y'all cain't take an ounce of credit fer it, _'cause yuh weren't there!_" Jonah's voice broke on the last words, and he turned away from the shack -- his face felt hot, but not from the weather. "Stupid...hollerin' at a pile of kindling," he said under his breath, then flicked the horse's reins. "C'mon, let's get away from this damn place afore Ah decide tuh sell yuh fer glue."

* * *

He left Haverville behind without a second glance and continued on across the open plains of Texas, albeit with a slightly heavier heart -- the feelings that seeing his hometown stirred up lingered on, though he tried to convince himself that he felt nothing as always. But at night, as Jonah slept beneath the stars, the old ghosts of childhood would return to haunt his dreams, never leaving until the first light of dawn, where he would awaken with an unrested body and a weary mind.

A few days after leaving Haverville, his path took him alongside a small river -- there was an Indian encampment on the other side, and some women and children were gathered on the far bank collecting water. Keeping a respectful distance, Jonah led his horse to the bank on his side of the river for a drink, then knelt down and began to refill his canteens. All the while, he watched the Indians from the corner of his eye, and he saw a few watching him as well, but none seemed to mind his presence. From what he could tell, they appeared to be Apache, and Mescalero at that. _Makes sense,_ he thought, taking a drink from one of the canteens, _reckon this is roundabout where me an' Pa met up with..._

Jonah froze, his eyes wide, then turned his attention directly at the Apache women across the river. To most white men, they probably all looked alike, but one of the women had a certain look about her, one that had never fully left Hex's mind after all these years.

"White Fawn," he whispered, and his canteen dropped from his hand and into the river. Seconds later, he was in the river himself, wading across the shallow water to the other bank, calling her name in Apache the entire time. The women let out a cry of fright as he did so, thinking him some sort of madman, and many ran back to camp, but White Fawn stood her ground.

"Who are you?" she asked him in Apache as she pushed one of the children behind her. "How do you know my name?"

"Do you not recognize me?" He took off his hat so as to better show his face, then got another idea: he reached beneath his uniform and removed the deerskin pouch that still hung from the back of his belt. "Perhaps you might recognize this."

She stared at him in disbelief. "No...no, you are dead..."

Hex closed the distance between them, saying, "Not so long as I have you to come back to." He then picked her up and kissed her, putting into it over twelve years of unsaid passion and regret, his heart filling with emotions that he thought had died along with Cassie, but instead were reborn at the sight of White Fawn. To his surprise, though, White Fawn tried to push away from him. "What is wrong?" he asked. "Do you not love me anymore?"

"I do, Mark of the Puma," she said, calling him by his Apache name, "but my love is no longer mine to give." Jonah was about to ask what she meant by that, then saw the child standing behind her: a little girl who bore striking resemblance to White Fawn when she was younger.

Crestfallen, he let go of her -- it had been foolish to think that she was unmarried after all this time. "Kin Ah at least meet the lucky man?" Jonah asked in English. Before White Fawn could respond, however, he noticed some of the Apache men coming his way from camp...and in the lead was Noh-Tante.

Hex left White Fawn's side and approached him. "Yuh backstabbin' sonovabitch," he snarled, "bet yuh never thought yuh'd see me again!" Without further preamble, he jumped on Noh-Tante and began to pummel him, the shock on the Apache warrior's face plain to see. The others quickly pulled Jonah off, though he fought against them every step of the way. "Let go of me, dammit! Ah'm gonna make him pay fer whut he did tuh me!"

At that moment, High Cloud joined the group at the riverbank. "What is happening? Who are you?" he asked Hex, then turned to White Fawn. "Why did this stranger attack your husband?"

"Hus..._husband?!?_" Jonah felt all the blood drain from his face as he stared at White Fawn. "Yuh married _Noh-Tante?!?_ How could yuh do such a thing?"

"He began courting me not long after you..." She hesitated, still in shock over her lost love's sudden return. "He said you were _dead_, that the Kiowa had killed you before his eyes while you were raiding their camp." Tears rolled down her cheeks as she asked him, "If you were not dead, then where have you been all these years?"

"That is a very good question." The chief approached Jonah, recognition suddenly coming to his eyes, and motioned for the Apaches to let the young man go. "It has been twelve years since you disappeared, Mark of the Puma...why did you wait until now to come back to us?"

So Jonah told them, starting with how Noh-Tante double-crossed him that night at the Kiowa encampment, then about his miraculous escape and the months spent recovering from his wounds, while his friend Windy Taylor tried to track down the Apache tribe to no avail. "Ah tried tuh find yuh muhself after thet," he said to High Cloud in English, "but it was like y'all vanished into thin air, an' then...then other things happened, an' the War...it was dumb luck thet brought me here today." Jonah then looked over to where Noh-Tante stood, saying, "But thet don't mean Ah'm about tuh let yuh get away with stealin' White Fawn from me. Ah've lost too damn much these last few years tuh let thet slide."

"And I am not about to let you get away with saying such lies about me." Noh-Tante waved a hand at Hex's Confederate uniform. "It's obvious that you reverted back to the ways of the whites the moment you were taken from us. _That's_ why you never returned to our tribe: you were ashamed of turning your back on everything we taught you."

"Yo're the one thet ought tuh be ashamed, yuh yellowbellied..." He began to move towards the Apache, fists clenched, but High Cloud stepped between them.

"I have heard both your tales, and while each of you told them with conviction, both cannot be true. There is only one way to settle this: a trial by combat, with the accuser facing the accused. The victor shall be the one who fights honorably, for he who speaks the truth has nothing to fear." He looked to his son, saying, "As the accused, you have the right to choose the weapon."

Noh-Tante glanced over to the crowd of Apache gathered around them, then said, "I choose the tomahawk...we shall see how much my white brother remembers of his adopted heritage."

"More than y'all ever did," Jonah answered. As High Cloud led them to the fighting circle, Hex stripped off his gunbelt and handed it to White Fawn in a show of fair play. When she took it, she pleaded with him to not go through with the fight. "Ah have tuh, darlin'," he told her, "Ah'm sick tuh death of folks thinkin' they kin walk all over me with no consequence. Thet man done me wrong, an' Ah aim tuh show him thet he cain't get away with it." Jonah then nodded towards White Fawn's daughter, following close behind. "Ah'll understand if'n yuh still want tuh stay with Noh-Tante when this is all over, though. Ah won't like it, but Ah'll understand why."

Black Raven was waiting for them in the fighting circle, a pair of stone-headed tomahawks in his hands. He gave one to each of the opponents, then stepped back to join the other Indians bordering the circle. Jonah hefted the weapon, reacquainting himself with the feel, then noticed that there was an unusual amount of rawhide wrapped around the handle. Upon closer examination, he saw that the wood beneath was badly cracked -- chances were that it would snap in half after a few heavy blows. Jonah started to say something, but before the words left his mouth, the chief called for the combat to begin, and Noh-Tante rushed forward, his tomahawk raised to strike. _Ain't got no choice now,_ Hex thought, and blocked the oncoming blow, hooking the head of the weapon with his and using the Apache's momentum to fling him to the ground.

Noh-Tante landed hard, and Jonah swung his tomahawk at the prone man's arm, hoping to end this quickly. Unfortunately, Noh-Tante rolled out of the way, and Hex struck the ground instead -- he could feel the wood begin to splinter as he tumbled forward off-balance. To make matters worse, his opponent took advantage of the blunder and sunk his weapon into the back of Hex's calf, and he went down in a heap. "First blood is mine," Noh-Tante said, and moved in for another blow.

"An' thet's all yo're gettin'," Jonah growled. He brought up his uninjured leg and kicked Noh-Tante in the gut, making him step back a few feet. Blood trickled into Hex's boot as he stood up, gritting his teeth and advancing on his opponent. The two of them locked together, glaring at each other from behind crossed tomahawks. "Ah know whut Black Raven did," Hex said to him. "The two of yuh have always been thick as thieves...he slipped me a busted weapon so's yuh couldn't lose." He pushed his tomahawk against Noh-Tante's ever harder, trying to ignore to slow cracking noise coming from the handle. "Whut's the matter, were yuh afraid yuh couldn't beat a white man?"

"You forget your place..._slave!"_ Noh-Tante shoved him backwards with all his might, and Jonah's wounded leg crumpled beneath the strain. He tried to catch himself as he went down, but his efforts were only met with a final_ snap_ from the wood handle when his tomahawk struck the ground. Then Noh-Tante was upon him, one hand around Hex's throat as he pinned him to the ground, the other holding his sturdy weapon high above the white man's head. Jonah braced his own hand against Noh-Tante's wrist so as to keep the weapon as far from his skull as possible, but his strength was flagging, and the chiseled stone edge was inching closer. "I should thank you, 'brother', for coming back so I could kill you myself," the Apache said. "I will remember this day fondly...especially whenever I take White Fawn to my bed." He leaned close, a manic look of glee on his face. "It's a shame you were never able to do so yourself...her skin tastes so sweet..."

That was the final straw. Blind rage enveloped Jonah's brain, devouring any sense of civility he still possessed. The man before him was void of honor, so why should he fight honorably? With barely a thought, Jonah reached behind his neck with his free hand and unsheathed the knife he still kept beneath his coat, then drove it between Noh-Tante's ribs, twisting and jerking the blade to the side as he did so. The Apache's expression didn't change right away -- he kept on leering at Hex, tomahawk raised -- then realization crept across his features as blood began to seep out of the corner of his mouth from his punctured lung. Jonah pushed him aside with no trouble now and stood up as High Cloud came forward, falling to his knees beside his dying son. "He cheated," Jonah said, "he an' Black Raven rigged muh tomahawk so's it would break."

"The only evidence I see of cheating is in your bloodied hands," the chief replied, never taking his eyes from Noh-Tante. "You fought like a white man, with cowardice and deception, while my son fought with nothing but honor till his final breath...I declare him the victor." He looked over to the braves standing nearby and nodded towards Hex. "Seize him."

They did as their chief ordered, grabbing Jonah by the arms and forcing the knife from his hand. He struggled to free himself, calling out to White Fawn that this wasn't what it looked like, but she turned away from him, afraid to show any sympathy in front of her people. Taking the tomahawk from Noh-Tante's hand, High Cloud walked over to one of the cooking fires, gesturing to the Apaches holding Jonah to follow him. "Long ago, you saved my life at the risk of your own, and I made you part of my family because of that," the chief said as he knelt down in front of the fire, sticking the stone blade deep into the embers. "I thought you were different from the other whites, and that perhaps our two people could truly learn to live together...but now I see that the evil I have witnessed in your people dwells within you as well, though it lies much deeper. Perhaps if you had never left us, we could have fully driven the spirit of the white devil from your heart, but it's too late for such things now. The most I can do is send a warning to anyone else who crosses your path, so they will not be fooled as I was." He pulled the tomahawk from the fire and approached Hex, grabbing hold of his red hair and tilting his head up. "From this day forward, the name of Mark of the Puma shall never be spoken again -- you are dead to my tribe, and are forbidden to ever return here. The shame of what you did shall remain with you for the rest of your life, and all who look upon you will know your true name: Mark of the Demon!"

With that, High Cloud pressed the red-hot tomahawk to the right side of Jonah's face. He tried to hold in the scream, but it was impossible as the skin beneath the blade burned away, the pain shooting though his head like a bullet -- he'd been burned before, but never like this, never with such intensity. He squirmed in the grip of the Apaches, wanting to turn his face away, to escape the agony for even a moment, but it was no use, it went on and on, the smell of his own seared flesh filling his nostrils, coating the inside of his mouth. Mercifully, shock began to overtake his senses, shutting down his awareness of what was happening to him...until he screamed anew as High Cloud finally pulled the tomahawk away, the burned flesh sticking momentarily to the blade before tearing free. Only then did the men holding Jonah let go, letting him fall bonelessly to the ground. He never felt the impact, though: to Hex, it seemed like he fell straight through the earth, sinking like a stone into black, unknown depths as consciousness left him completely.

* * *

There was no sense of time in the darkness, just an endless stretch of nothing as he floated along in the cool silence. Sometimes a voice would drift towards him, then fade away before he could focus on it. Other times he felt movement, or a hand touching his face, but those sensations usually brought pain with them, and he was glad when they drifted off again, leaving him alone and numb. He liked it that way: in this place, there was no death, no tears, no pain, he didn't have to fight or think or feel...perhaps he'd never go back, he'd just stay in the nothing forever. But he of all people should have known that the good things in life never last, and eventually the world began to creep in for longer periods of time, the voices becoming more distinct, the sensations less vague, until the darkness parted enough for Jonah to be aware of someone leaning over his body, and something soft occasionally brushing against his face, tickling him. He reached up and swatted at whatever it was, his hand connecting with the unseen figure's -- the movement was clumsy, but it got the job done.

"Well, good morning," a man's voice said. "Can you hear me? Give me a sign if you can."

Jonah tried to speak, but as his mouth formed the words, a sudden pain flared up across the right side of his face, and the best he could manage was a rusty squeak. "Don't try to talk just yet," the man told him a bit too late, "just nod or shake your head...gently." The tickling returned, and Jonah realized that the man was removing a bandage over his face. "I want you to try opening your eyes in a moment, all right?" Hex managed a nod, and the man pulled away the last of the bandage, saying, "Okay...open them slowly."

Everything was a blur at first, and much too bright -- he immediately tried to shut them again, but like speaking, the action brought pain. After a moment, his eyes adjusted, and he saw that he was in lying in bed in a sparsely-decorated room. A chair sat in the corner with his uniform and other possessions draped over it. Standing beside the bed was a man with dark curly hair and glasses, his crisp white shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. Jonah's brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"I'm Dr. Fleisher...you're in the back room of my office," he said, reading the unspoken question on his patient's face. "An Indian woman brought you into town three days ago -- she said she'd found you passed out beside your horse in the desert." The doctor raised an eyebrow. "She also claimed that she didn't know you, but judging by the way she acted before she left, I'm thinking that wasn't true." He waved off his own speculation, saying, "No matter what the circumstance, she got you here just in time: if your injuries had gone untreated any longer, I don't think I could have..." The doctor stopped as someone called his name from behind the closed door to the room. "If you'll excuse me, it sounds like I've got another patient. Be back in just a moment."

He stepped out, leaving Jonah alone to stare at the ceiling. The woman that Fleisher spoke of had to have been White Fawn -- the Apaches had probably tossed his unconscious body over his saddle and drove the horse off, and she'd risked exile from her tribe just to make sure that he was safe. One last act of love, despite what he'd done, and one he'd never be able to thank her for -- if he dared to return to the tribe, they would kill him. _Ah'm so sorry, darlin', _Jonah thought, _this ain't how Ah intended fer things tuh turn out._ He groaned as he pushed himself upright, then reached over to the bedside table for the pitcher of water sitting there. His throat was terribly dry for some reason, probably from sleeping with his mouth hanging open. _Reckon thet's why muh jaw hurts so bad,_ he said to himself as he poured a glass. _Been knocked out fer three days, sawin' logs...bet Ah drove the doc crazy._ He brought the glass to his lips and took a long drink...

...then stopped as the water ran out the right side of his face and down the front of his longjohns. He stared at the wet streak on his chest, unable to comprehend what caused it, then slowly, he reached up and touched his cheek. What he felt put a cold lump of fear in his gut. _Oh no...oh dear God no no no no... _Though slightly hobbled by his leg injury, Hex got out of bed and made his way across the room to a small mirror hanging on the wall. The sight before him looked even worse than it felt: the entire right side of his face, from just above his jawbone to the edge of his eyebrow, was nothing but a twisted mass of scar tissue. The tender flesh around his eyelid was crimped and pulled taut so that he couldn't close it completely without pain, and his cheek had been ripped wide open, the edges of the wound cauterized and stretching the corner of his mouth into a permanent sneer. He could see the stitch marks where the doctor had tried to repair the damage, reconnecting a single strip of flesh over the remains of his upper and lower lip in an effort to give his visage some semblance of normalcy, but there just wasn't enough tissue left to work with.

_They took muh face, _Jonah thought as he stared at the nightmare before him, salty tears burning like fire as they rolled down what was left of his cheek. _Weren't bad enough thet Noh-Tante took White Fawn from me, his pa had tuh go an' take muh goddam face!_ He wanted to curse them aloud, but the still-healing scars hurt too damn much for him to open his mouth more than a crack. Instead, he clenched his jaw tight and let out a guttural noise, slamming his fist against the mirror until it shattered. The commotion caught the attention of Dr. Fleisher, who reentered the room to find Jonah sitting on the floor sobbing, bloody hands covering his ruined face.

* * *

A full moon hung over the town of Burnett, Texas, a fitting counterpart to the Halloween festivities taking place that night. Little boys jumped out of shadows in an effort to spook the girls, while their parents danced in the square and imbibed on hard cider. Even the local saloon was decked out for the evening with bundles of dry cornstalks flanking the doors. Not that the regulars cared about the ambience -- so long as the drinks kept coming, they didn't give a damn how the owner dressed it up. A few men had commandeered the piano in the corner and were singing bawdy songs, most of them directed at the barmaid. She'd been through such things before, however, and ignored them as she went over to the bar to pick up another round.

"You might want to check on the Reb in the corner," she said to the owner as he reloaded her tray, "he ain't moved in a couple hours."

"Why don't you? That's what I pay you for."

She shook her head. "I ain't superstitious or nothin', but he gives me the shivers something awful, especially on a night like this."

"Fine, fine." He left the bar and walked to the back of the saloon. A man dressed in Confederate gray was slumped over a table there, an empty bottle laying next to his hand. "Hey you, wake up," he said, shaking the man. "If'n you ain't buyin' no more, you gotta get out."

The Reb stirred, then slowly sat up -- as always, the owner tried not to react when he saw the horrid scars on the man's face. Jonah had first stumbled into town two days before, and had proceeded to get sloshed in this particular saloon ever since, much to the owner's chagrin. A moment passed by as the message filtered through Hex's pickled brain, then he reached into the deerskin pouch on his belt. The owner figured the guy must have a couple dollars still stashed in there, but instead of money, he tossed a tarnished gold ring onto the tabletop without a word.

"What the Hell do you think this is, a pawn shop? Cough up some money or I'm tossin' your sorry butt out the door!" But Hex didn't move, he just sat there, his bloodshot eyes fixed on his old wedding band. "That's it..._adios_, rummy!" The owner grabbed Hex by the collar and dragged him to the door, the other patrons whooping as the former Confederate was shoved out into the street. "An' don't forget your cheap jewelry, too!" the owner said, and threw the ring out after him.

Jonah lay in the mud for a few minutes, not paying any heed to the people staring at him as they passed by on the boardwalk. Then he sat up, reaching over to pluck the ring out of the mud. He carefully wiped it clean before slipping it back in his pouch, though he couldn't think of why he was bothering: it was worthless, just like him, not even enough value to it to buy him a drink. And he needed one so badly, just a little one to stop the pain for a while -- the scars didn't ache so bad now, except in wet weather, but the ache in his soul never went away. He had nothing left to live for, nothing to fight for, all he had to look forward to every day was his next belt of whiskey...and now that the money had run out, that was gone as well. He rested a hand against the gun on his hip, thinking of what the saloon owner had said about pawn shops. _A fine pistol like this should fetch a few dollars, _Jonah thought, _an' the ring might get me a few more, maybe enough tuh hold me 'til Christmas._ He staggered to his feet and began to walk to an alleyway near the saloon -- he'd find a place to curl up for the night, then try to sell off what little he had left in the morning.

As he approached the mouth of the alley, Hex thought he heard a woman crying. He stopped, cocking his head to listen, then he heard a man's voice say, "Don't lie tuh me! Ah know whut yuh been doin' behind muh back! Did yuh think Ah wouldn't find out, yuh damn whore?" followed by the sound of someone getting slapped.

Hex froze, the familiarity of the words striking home. Slowly, he crept over to the alley and saw a grizzled man holding a woman against the wall, her blonde hair in disarray. She was begging him to stop, but the man wasn't listening, he just kept on hitting her, cursing her. Jonah pressed himself against the wall, arms hugging his chest, all the old fears coming back to him. _It cain't be them...it's been so long..._ But despite the fog of alcohol on his brain, he knew what he saw. He also knew that he wasn't a little boy anymore. With a conviction that he hadn't felt in months, Jonah strode up to the man and grabbed him, throwing him against the opposite wall of the alley. "Ah ain't gonna let yuh hurt her no more, Pa," he growled.

"Whut the Hell are yuh talkin' about? Who the Hell are yuh?"

"Yuh forgot all 'bout me, didn't yuh? Well, Ah didn't forget yuh, Pa, an' Ah sure as Hell didn't forget all the grief yuh used tuh give me an' Ma." Hex pointed at the woman behind him, still crying as she crumpled to the ground. "Ah swore Ah'd show yuh someday how wrong yuh was, an' today's the day!"

The man scoffed and pushed Hex away. "Yuh damn crazy drunk," he said as he reached down to draw his gun, "yuh picked the wrong night tuh go pickin' fights." He pulled leather, but before he could even clear the holster, Jonah drew his own and blasted a hole in the man's chest, the gunshot echoing all though the alleyway. The ex-soldier had done so more out of instinct than thought, and now that the deed was done, he felt no remorse -- he'd threatened to shoot his father once before, this was just the culmination of that earlier attempt.

"It's all over, Ma," Jonah said, and knelt beside the woman, putting his arms around her. "He's finally dead, yuh don't have tuh run away now. We kin go home an'..."

She slapped Jonah across the face, screaming, "Get away from me, you freak! Help, somebody help me!" Hex couldn't understand why his mother was reacting that way, then the truth began to sink in: aside from the blonde hair, this woman didn't look anything like his mother. A chill went down his spine as he turned to look at the man he'd just shot -- despite the similar twang in his voice, that was most certainly not his father. _Good Lord, _he thought_, whut have Ah done?_

People began to gather at the mouth of the alley, attracted by the shouts and gunplay. The woman wrenched free of Jonah's weakening grip and ran to them, falling into the arms of a deputy just arriving on the scene. "He's crazy...he just came up and started shooting!" she said, pointing at Hex. The deputy drew his gun and ordered him to put his hands up. Jonah did as he was told, too much in shock to offer any resistance.

The night he spent in jail was the longest of his life: he lay awake on the tiny bunk in his cell, staring at the wall and replaying the incident in his head. He'd killed a total stranger in cold blood for no reason other than he was too blind drunk to distinguish between reality and memory -- had he really sunk that low? The morning brought no relief, only a terrible hangover to go with his guilt, and to top it off, he suddenly remembered what day it was: November first...his birthday. _Yo're a real piece of work, Jonah boy, _he thought as he sat up, trying to hold his head together with both hands. _Here yuh are, just turned twenty-eight, an' whut do yuh got tuh show fer it? Nothin' but empty pockets an' a splittin' headache._ He thought back on all the Hell he'd been through over the years, all the attempts he'd made to lead at a good life...why did it always go so terribly wrong for him? Why did he always become the scapegoat? There was only one person he could think to ask, but it had never been in Jonah's nature to do so, having been raised by a father who valued the belt over the Bible. At that moment, however, sitting in a jail cell with no hope of a future, it seemed like the best thing to do. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and clasped his hands before him.

_Lord, Yuh know Ah ain't muh of a prayin' man, but Ah ain't got nowhere else tuh turn. Ah ain't gonna ask Yer forgiveness fer killin' thet man, 'cause thet ain't right -- murder is murder, there ain't no excuse fer it, an' Ah'll do muh time fer it when the time comes. All's Ah'm askin' is fer Y'all tuh show me whut Ah'm supposed tuh do with muh life. Ah hear-tell thet Y'all put everybody on this here Earth fer a purpose, but Ah cain't seem tuh figure out whut mine is. Ah've failed at everything Ah've ever done, an' Ah've lost everybody thet ever showed me an ounce of love or respect...Ah'm tired of sufferin'. Ah ain't askin' fer much, just show me whut purpose Yuh done put me here fer. If'n it's so folks kin keep spittin' on me...well, just let these lawmen hang me, 'cause Ah don't want thet job no more. But if'n Yuh got something else in mind, show me whut it is..._

"You know, when I saw your name on the blotter this morning, I could hardly believe it."

Jonah looked up to see a Tejano man standing at the cell door. He appeared to be in his fifties, his long salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a ponytail, and a pair of Walker Colts holstered on a belt strapped across his chest, a sheriff's badge pinned above them. Something about his appearance plucked at Jonah's memory, and when he finally put his finger on it, he could only think of one thing to say: "Ah thought yuh was a Ranger."

Antonio Ramirez couldn't help but smile. "Back when we first met, yeah, but I retired from the Texas Rangers a few years before the War. That's a game for younger men, not old fools like me." He leaned against the bars. "So, you want to explain what happened last night?" Hex didn't respond, casting his eyes down to the floor instead. "It's alright, doesn't matter anyhow." Ramirez unlocked the cell door. "Whether it was intentional or not, you'll still get what's coming to you."

Jonah didn't like the sound of that. Despite the ominous implications, he followed the former Ranger into the front office. When they got there, he saw his gunbelt laying on the desk, along with a small stack of money. To Hex's surprise, Ramirez picked up the money and handed it right over to him. He stared at the wad of bills for a moment, then said, "Whut the Hell's this fer?"

"That man you killed was 'Mad Dog' Lucas McGill, wanted for murder in five states and at least as many territories -- Bart Mallory was a choirboy compared to him." He scooped up a wanted poster off the desk and showed it to Jonah. "From what I can piece together, he'd rode into town yesterday and tried to get an old girlfriend of his to hide him...that was the young lady you found him with last night. Unfortunately, she'd been seeing another man, and McGill wasn't very happy about it -- matter of fact, if you hadn't butted in and shot him, he may've very likely killed her too." The older man shook his head, saying, "If I hadn't been out of town last night when my deputy arrested you, we could've straightened out this whole mess then, and you could've used that bounty money to sleep in a nice hotel room instead of a cell."

"Bounty?" Jonah looked at the poster and noted the thousand dollar reward printed on it, the same as what he now held in his hand. "Ah cain't take this, Ah ain't no bounty hunter..."

"You don't have to be: a bounty goes to whomever captures...or kills...the person in question. You killed McGill, so you get the money. And I've gotta say, you really earned it: the reason the bounty's so high is because so many professional bounty hunters have died trying to bring him in. Somebody up there was keeping a close eye on you, Jonah."

"Reckon maybe they was," he said quietly. He looked at the wall behind Ramirez, at all the other posters there -- some of the rewards on them were as much as McGill's, others just a few hundred. "Whut do yuh got tuh do anyhow? Tuh be a bounty hunter, Ah mean."

"Same as you did last night, basically: be faster on the draw than whomever you're tracking down." He saw where Hex was looking, and pointed a finger at him. "You get that damn fool idea outta your head right now, though, it's a dangerous way for young man like yourself to make a living. Most bounty hunters I know ain't much better than the men they chase...some end up becoming criminals themselves. They drift along from one job to the next, no home, no friends or family, no one caring if they live or die...all they've got to depend on in life is their guns and their wits. The only good thing I can say about them is that they make my job a mite easier. They're willing to ride a lot further and put up with a lot more grief than most lawmen just to make a few extra dollars."

"So they do some good, then. Maybe not all the time, but they serve a purpose." Hex unbuttoned his coat enough to slip the money inside, then picked up his gunbelt from the desk and buckled it back into place. "Ain't glamorous work, but it's something thet needs tuh be done."

Ramirez put a hand on Jonah's shoulder and said, "Listen, son, I can tell that you've been through a lot since we last saw each other, and maybe you think you can handle that sort of life, but you've got to believe me: right now, it might seem like there's nothing wrong with hunting people down for a living...Hell, it might even seem like fun...but there might come a day ten or twenty years down the line when you look in the mirror and you don't like what's looking back. So before you do anything foolish, promise me that you'll take a day to think about what I said. Think about it real long and real hard."

Jonah looked Ramirez straight in the eye and said, "Yuh have muh word, sir."

* * *

She could still see the bruises. The woman had spent all morning layering powder over them, but the purplish marks on her face were too dark to hide. Frustrated, she knocked the makeup off the vanity and began to sob -- she felt like she hadn't stopped since last night, not since Lucas showed up for the first time in years. He'd always been the jealous type, but the way he'd acted last night...had he expected her to wait forever? And then that man...that horribly ugly man coming out of nowhere and killing Lucas, then grabbing her and babbling about taking her home. The whole ordeal had left her so shaken she'd barely slept that night. _But it's all over now, _the woman thought. _Lucas is dead, that madman is in jail, and the bruises will go away. You can't keep falling apart like this..._

There was a knock at the door to her room, and she let out a sharp shriek, then got a hold of herself. "J-just a minute!" she said, and daubed her cheeks with a handkerchief before answering the door -- it was Mrs. Carmichael, the owner of the boardinghouse where the woman lived. "I'm sorry, I...I don't have the rent just yet. I know it's the first of the month, but..."

"But ye want another extension," Mrs. Carmichael finished for her, "same as last time." She clucked her tongue. "Always ready with the excuses, ye are. Lucky for ye, that's not why I'm knockin'. A rather...severe-looking man came by, asked me to give ye this," she said, and handed the woman an envelope. "Ye can do better, I think...what happened to that lovely gent that was stoppin' by for ye a few weeks back?"

The woman ignored her landlady's nosiness and opened the envelope -- it was unmarked, and she couldn't think of who might drop off something for her. To her shock, she saw that it was filled with money...about nine hundred dollars by her quick count. "Who did you say left this?" she somehow managed to ask.

"He didn't leave a name, he just said to be sure ye got it." But the woman was already running to the stairs before Mrs. Carmichael could finish. She took the steps two at a time, almost tumbling to the bottom in her rush, but it was all for naught: by the time she got to the front porch of the boardinghouse, the man in question was already halfway down the road. She called out to him, but he never turned around, and the only thing about him she could make out through the dust kicked up by his horse was his Confederate-gray coat.

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

_**1878:**_

All was quiet in El Gato Negro, the steady tick-tock of the clock in the saloon being the only sound heard. Those renting rooms for the night had turned in hours ago, and the elderly couple that owned the place had followed them upstairs not long after. But not long before midnight, a new sound could be heard: footsteps in the hall leading to the rooms. They fell softly, haltingly, until the shadowed figure taking those steps stopped in front of one of the closed doors. A hand reached out for the knob, giving it a turn and opening the door -- moonlight coming through the window gave the room beyond a silvery glow, outlining the sleeping form of Jonah Hex on the bed. The figure stepped inside, paused to take note of the gun in its holster hanging from the bedpost, then drew his own and advanced on Hex. The bounty hunter was turned towards the wall, the scarred side of his face pressed hard into the pillow as the figure crept up, pointing the gun at his temple...

...then Hex's left hand shot up, grabbing the pistol and forcing it down to the bed, while his right hand came out from beneath the pillow and pointed a gun identical to the one in his holster at the would-be assassin. Jonah glared at the figure, trying to discern in the dim moonlight who he had in his grip, then saw that it was the young man from the poker table earlier in the evening. Not easing up in the least, he said, "Huh...thought fer sure yuh was thet big Mexican."

The young man was breathing hard, his eyes focused on the ivory-handled Dragoon just inches from his face, then flicking briefly over to the other pistol still holstered on the bedpost. "Wuh...w-where did...how did you..."

"Yuh know, if'n yo're aimin' tuh kill a man, yuh should pay closer attention tuh how many guns he's carryin'. Might live longer." Hex pulled the young man a little closer. "While we're on the subject...why _are _yuh tryin' tuh kill me?"

"I know...I know why you're here. I saw the way you looked at me downstairs."

Hex cocked an eyebrow. "An how was thet, boy?"

"You knew my face...not like we've met before, but like you've seen my picture. An' you bein' who you are -- a bounty hunter, that is -- you probably have." He tried to put some steel into his voice, but it was no good. "I ain't ashamed of what I did over in Casa Verde, but I ain't about to hang for it neither. I've killed every lawman that's tried to drag me back there, an' I knew it was only a matter of time before they posted a bounty. Just never figured it would be big enough to attract _your_ attention." Hex said nothing, just regarded his late-night visitor with cold blue eyes. The young man swallowed hard and continued, "I've heard about you...more'n what those fellas downstairs said, I mean. There's folks that say you can't be stopped, that you've been killed an' buried a hundred times but you just crawl right outta the ground without a scratch on ya. Some folks say you weren't never human, you're...you're some sort of demon that pretends to be a man, an' you go about collectin' sinners. I don't think none of that's true, I think you're just an ugly old man that enjoys killin' a bit too much...but I ain't stupid enough to take any chances."

"So yuh thought yuh'd come up here an' kill me in muh sleep like the brave soul yuh are," Jonah said mockingly. "Yuh could've just walked away the moment Ah went upstairs, just rode off into the night an' been long gone by the time Ah woke up...but skunks like yerself just don't know when tuh stop, do yuh?" He jabbed the barrel of the gun under the young man's chin. "Yuh cain't let a man have even one day of peace."

"Y-you don't have to do this! I swear, if you let me go, I'll never hurt anyone again..." He fell to his knees, his gun hand still pinned to the bed by Hex.

"Thet a fact? Whut about the next fella thet comes along lookin' fer yuh? Ah reckon yuh'll forget all about yer promises right quick, an' maybe he won't be as light a sleeper as Ah am." Jonah cocked the hammer. "Best thet we wrap up the problem right here an' now."

The sound made the young man's eyes widen. "Wait...you said you wouldn't kill anybody tonight!" he blurted out in desperation. "You can't..." But as he said the words, the clock downstairs began to buzz and whine, the inner workings threatening to break down completely, until the chime started to mark off the final seconds 'til midnight. Panic overtook the young man, and he began to beat at Hex with his free hand, but the bounty hunter had a grip like iron, and the Dragoon never wavered. The young man begged, cried, bargained, cursed, but it didn't make any difference as the clock labored to sound out the hour: seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve...

Everyone woke up when the gun went off. The elderly couple was the first to come out of their room, with the cowboy and the salesman putting in an appearance not long after. They all stood in the hallway, staring at the closed door to Hex's room, none of them daring to approach. Then, nearly five minutes after the gunshot, the door opened, and Jonah Hex stepped out, fully dressed and a grim look on his face. In one hand was his saddlebag, and tossed over his shoulder was the body of the young man, his head and upper torso wrapped in a bloody sheet. Hex paid his audience no attention as he walked to the stairs, heading down to the saloon proper.

Enrique was the only one who dared follow, though his wife bade him not to. He stood on the porch outside the saloon, watching as Hex went into the livery next door. A few minutes later, he heard a yelp come from inside the building, then the two other men who'd been playing poker that night ran out, the sight of the bounty hunter with his grisly bundle scaring them right out of their bedrolls -- they hadn't met the young man before that night, and they certainly didn't want Hex to think that they knew anything about him now that he was dead.

When Hex emerged once again, he was leading two horses, the young man's body tossed over the back of one of them. He walked them over to the porch, looked up to Enrique, and asked, "How far is it tuh Casa Verde from here?"

"Three days east, _senor."_ The bounty hunter nodded thanks, then tethered the other horse to his own and mounted up. As he did so, Enrique said, "Pardon me, _senor,_ but I must know: is that why you came here tonight? To kill that man?"

"Nope. Ah was just lookin' fer some decent food an' a warm bed." Jonah glanced back at the corpse on the horse behind him. "Ah ain't got the foggiest notion who he was, but he thought Ah did, an' thet was enough tuh make him act a fool. Figure Ah'll take him back tuh Casa Verde, try an' get some answers there." He waved a hand towards the upper floor of the saloon, saying, "Sorry fer the mess...Ah left some money upstairs tuh help cover it."

_"Gracias, senor..._and_ vaya con Dios."_

Hex merely grunted at the blessing, and spurred his horse into motion. The trail before him was long, but no different than the countless others he'd traveled over the years -- there seemed to be no end to his wanderings since he'd decided to become a bounty hunter. Sometimes he felt like he'd been tricked by God, and that the path he'd been directed to was the wrong one. That was why he always set aside that one day for himself, to reconsider the decision he'd made, just as he'd done for Ramirez so long ago. And every time, something would happen to let him know that, no matter what society thought of him, he was still needed, and the best he could hope for in life was that he would someday be able to lay down his guns with the confidence that his job was done.

But today was most certainly not that day.

_He was a hero to some, a villain to others, and wherever he rode _

_people spoke his name in whispers. He had no friends, this Jonah Hex, _

_but he did have two companions: one was death itself..._

_the other...the acrid smell of gunsmoke..._

**THE END**


End file.
